Retribution
by Kathoran
Summary: ret·ri·bu·tion. ˌretrəˈbyo oSH(ə)n/ Noun. Punishment inflicted on someone as vengeance for a wrong or criminal act. "Not even Grant Ward can escape the retribution his sister has planned for those who made her into a monster."
1. Chapter 1

_October 14, 1997_

 _"Grant!" The little girl ran screaming from the kitchen and tore through the living room, skidding on the loose rug as she did so._ "Grant!"

 _"Sam?" The teenager stepped out from behind the doorframe in time for the child to plow into him, nearly knocking him over. Grant caught the four-year-old up in his arms and looked around wildly, startled that his sister would be so terrified. She was shaking and thrashing, trying to climb out of his arms. He ducked behind the couch and covered her mouth with his hand, shushing her gently._

 _"Sam," he whispered. "Sammie, look at me. Look at me."_

 _The little girl finally did, staring up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. He wiped the tears from her face with the pad of his thumb, listening intently for any trace of sound from the rest of the house. The little girl finally calmed down enough that her tears stopped, though her tiny body continued to tremble._

 _"Look at me, Sammie. Is it Christian?" he breathed._

 _She nodded, and her big brown eyes filled with tears once more. Dread filled Grant's heart, and he peered around the edge of the sofa, keeping his little sister tucked safely against his chest. Her short arms held him tightly, and his dark shirt was clenched in her small fists._

 _A wave of anger swept through him, and his grip on his sister tightened._ Christian. _What a hypocritical name. His brother was more like a demon than anything else._

 _Nearby, a floorboard creaked._

 _The little girl huddled closer to her brother, tucking her knees to her chest and squeezing her eyes shut tight. Grant took a deep breath and set his sister down. The little girl's eyes opened, peering innocently up at her brother._

 _"Run when I say," he breathed, and she nodded._

 _He stood, facing his older brother._

 _"Hey, Grant." The boy, already sixteen years old, glanced from the couch to his younger brother. "Where's Sam?"_

 _Grant heard his sister give a tiny, terrified gasp. "Haven't seen her."_

 _Christian took a step forward, and Grant mirrored him, slowly moving to stand in front of the couch. "Just walk away, Grant," Christian ordered, his face hardening. "Walk away."_

 _The front door opened, then slammed shut, and both boys froze. Heavy footsteps moved their way, and Christian, sister forgotten, sprinted from the room. Grant, following his brother's lead, dove through the doorway and into the hall moments before their mother entered the room._

 _His mother. Mothers should be nurturing, kind—at least, that is what he'd seen from the mothers of the other children he went to school with. He'd certainly never experienced kindness or love from his own mother. His brother, Thomas, was the only one who had never been on the receiving end of his mother's abuse, and Christian hated him for it._

 _Their father wasn't any better—he just sat by and watched._

 _"Samantha," he heard his mother coo._

 _Grant froze. He'd left his sister in the room, behind the couch—_

 _"I know you're here, darling," she continued, her voice soft. "Come out, dear."_

 _He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and steeling himself for what he was about to do. He'd told Sammie what to do when this happened—she'd run out into the yard, past the well that had long since been covered and buried—through the woods and down the road until she got to the police station._ "Don't stop," _he'd told her._ "Never stop running, okay? Don't stop running."

 _Sammie screamed. Grant's eyes flew open, and he burst into the room. His mother was standing over Samantha, who was curled into a tiny ball at her feet._

 _"Sammie, run!" He tackled the woman, sending her sprawling, and fought to hold her down as his little sister bolted from the room. He heard her mess with the doorknob, undoing the deadbolt, and then she was gone, running as quickly as her four-year-old legs could carry her._

 _A blow on the side of his head sent him sprawling, and he shook his head to clear it as his mother clamored to her feet. A second later, the boy lunged forward, taking the woman's legs out from under her. He had to give Sammie enough time to escape—it was a mile to the police station, but she could do it, she knew the way—_

 _He only prayed that his mother would be too distracted by punishing him that she'd forget about his sister._

 _The woman kicked out viciously, and her foot connected with his shoulder. He yelled as pain exploded in his shoulder, and he recoiled, holding her arm close to his chest. He watched as the woman rose to her feet, a horrible look on her face, and he braced himself as all hell descended upon him._

~8~8~

October 11, 2011

Rock music played loudly in my ears as I grunted, hoisting the bar up into the air before bringing it back down to touch my chest. I repeated the action, keeping my breathing steady even as my arms began to quiver in exhaustion.

I had been working out for the last hour, working to get in as much time as possible before class started. I had had to wake up at four-thirty to have time to fit in a trip to the gym before my eight o'clock class, but it was worth it. My spotter nodded as I set the bar back in its place, and he wandered off to help somebody else as I gathered my things and left the building.

The sun hadn't risen yet. Everything was doused in gray light, and mist obscured the taller of the residence halls from view. Hardly anyone was awake yet—except for the jogger who flew by a moment before—but for the kitchen staff and the odd all-nighter who was cramming for a midterm. I myself had been up until one in the morning studying and had only gotten a few hours of sleep for my troubles, but it didn't matter. I rarely slept these days anyway.

A cold shower shocked me completely awake, and I spent the next hour fixing my hair and makeup while simultaneously trying to make a cup of coffee. At seven forty-five, I dared to see if the drink was cool enough to taste—and the sip of coffee proved fatal to a large chunk of my tastebuds. I only had one midterm today—History—and one other class at eleven that I hadn't had to study for. I was supposed to meet my boyfriend for dinner at five, though I wasn't sure now if I would be able to taste the food we ate. The thought of my boyfriend brought a smile to my lips, and I felt my dimples appear in my cheeks.

The walk to class was brisk and cool, and and I slid into my seat with five minutes to spare.

"Hey, Sam!"

I smiled kindly to the young woman standing in the doorway. "Hey, Kates. What's up?"

"Oh, nothing much." The other girl plopped down in her seat and rubbed at her red-rimmed eyes.

"You didn't sleep last night, did you?" I asked, resting my chin in my hand.

"What, me? Oh, I slept. I slept for hours—" her claim was interrupted by a yawn that threatened to split her head open. "Okay, I didn't sleep. Did you bring me coffee?"

In answer, I pulled out a thermos and handed it to my friend. The girl unscrewed the lid and inhaled deeply. "Oh, thank God. You, Sam, are a saint."

"Hey, Samantha!" A sophomore girl with heterochromia leaned back in her seat and grinned. The unique splash of her brown in her left eye, which was otherwise blue, gave others the impression that her eye glowed with several different colors. The effect was slightly marred by the large pink flower tucked behind her ear, something that all pledges in the girl's sorority had to wear—it looked nice, but it distracted from her eyes. "You ready for the exam?"

"Are you kidding?" A boy my own age who sat directly behind me leaned forward and grinned. "I'm pretty sure Sam's got a hundred and three in the class. She's set."

"Alright, everything off your desks except for a pencil—that includes coffee, Ms. Eve."

Kate nodded and attempted to chug the rest of the thermos as the professor turned away, resulting in a strangled gasp and several attempts to prevent coughing up the drink onto her neighbor's back. The girl in front of her took panicked scoots forward as the teacher turned back around.

"You have three hours to complete the exam: I do not expect that any of you actually need all of the allotted time. Even so, do not rush, and a reminder that there is no class on Monday, so remember to read pages one hundred and seventy-three through two hundred and fifty for our discussion on Wednesday. You may begin as soon as you have your exam, there is to be no talking."

The professor handed out the exams, and I began as soon as the paper was in front of me. I blew through it with ease, though I spent over two hours on the essay portion of the exam, making sure that I included every date, battle, and notable person of rank involved in the Second World War. I was the last person to leave the classroom, and I had just enough time to walk through the doors of my Creative Writing class before my teacher started taking roll.

"Ah, Ms. Ward, thank you for joining us." The middle-aged woman smiled without spite and handed me a thick stack of paper held together by a binder-clip. "Marvelous work."

By lunchtime, I was exhausted. I had received the highest grade possible on my short story—though my professor had advised me to go on and turn it into a novel, since it was about a hundred pages too long for a short story—and had done exceedingly well on my other exams, except for science. I had decided to go ahead and take chemistry this year, and I was only managing to scrape together a B because of the extra credit I had been gathering all semester long.

"… and if I don't get an A on this midterm, there's almost no chance of me getting an A for the semester," I ranted, rolling over to face the ceiling. "Which, if I want to keep my four-oh, I need to—why are you laughing?"

 _"I'm sorry,"_ Thomas struggled to contain himself, _"It's just that I was just like you when I was in college. You're going to do fine, I promise—you're not even majoring in a Science, so you should be fine."_

I grinned, warmth filling me at the sound of my brother's reassurance, and rolled back onto my stomach. "Yes, I know, but I still want to have a high GPA!"

 _"You're a Freshman in college and have a four-oh, and you're probably the only one who isn't out drinking every weekend. You're you're are on the Dean's list, you're involved in a sorority and few other clubs I don't know the names of—you're going to be fine, trust me."_

"Thanks, Thomas." I pulled my teddy bear to my chest and rested my chin on it. "How's Anna?"

 _"She's good. She misses you—we want to fly you out soon, we love having you. Say, Thanksgiving?"_

I laughed, a joyous smile taking over my face. "I'd love that."

 _"That is,"_ Thomas interrupted slyly, _"If Jonathan doesn't have something planned for you already."_

"Jonathan's going to visit his family in Florida, I told you that already," I protested, laughing.

 _"How's he doing, anyway?"_

"He's good," I pulled my blanket up to my chin and nestled into my couch. "We have a date at five."

 _"You sound tired."_ The concern in my brother's voice made me smile sleepily as my eyelids drooped. "How much sleep have you been getting?"

"Not enough," I replied, blinking quickly to stay awake.

 _"I'll let you go, then,"_ Thomas told me, a smile in his voice. _"I'll tell Anna that you called."_

"Okay," I murmured. "Thomas?"

 _"Yeah?"_

"Happy birthday."

 _"Thanks, kiddo. I'll talk to you soon, okay? How does Monday sound?"_

"Monday's great. 'night."

 _"Goodnight, Sam,"_ he chuckled _. "I love you."_

"I love you too."

The line clicked, and I set my phone on the floor before bringing my knees to my chest and dropping off to sleep. The sound of knocking woke me up a few hours later, which was just as well—I'd been having a nightmare. I rose, groggy and off-balance, and made my way to the door, staggering as I did so. I glanced in the mirror—I looked far more unkept than I normally did—my makeup had rubbed off, revealing the dark bags under my eyes and the faint scars on my face—the little makeup that still remained was smeared under my eyes, making the circles appear even darker. A baggy sweatshirt fell past my hands, hiding my brutally short nails from view.

"Just a second!"

I splashed water on my face and rubbed the dark makeup off quickly, making me look at least a little more presentable. There wasn't much that could be done about my bedhead—my night-terrors caused me to sweat, which meant that my carefully straightened hair was now damp, frizzy, and spiraling out of control. I splashed water onto my neck and tugged at my clothing, which was suddenly restricting—I pulled the sweatshirt off over my head, leaving me in old jeans and low cut sweater whose sleeves still dropped past my wrists.

More knocking.

"I'm coming!"

No one ever really knocked; the only people in the building were other female students, and everyone knew that they could just walk on inside whenever. The only people who knocked were strangers and maintenance.

I unlocked the door and pulled it open, smiling and trying to look as awake as possible, expecting to see an RA who would let me know about some event happening that night in the lobby. I was not expecting to see a man.

His back was to me. I didn't recall meeting anyone of his build, so his appearance confused me. He was tall, about half a foot taller than I was. He had dark hair that was cut short but was all messy, as though he'd run his fingers through it several times out of frustration—likely because he'd been waiting for so long for me to answer the door. He was wearing a tailored suit, which fit his form nicely, and he was well built.

"Excuse me." I cleared my throat. "Are you looking for me?"

The man turned around. He looked disturbingly familiar, so much so that I took a step back, holding tight to the inside doorknob. "Yes, I'm looking for a Jennifer Guiles, does she live around here?"

My stomach dropped. "I don't know a Jennifer, sorry." I leaned against the door, I frowned. "Have we met?"

The man's face was expressionless. "No."

"You seem familiar."

The hand hidden by the door drifted to rest on the pocket knife in my back pocket. Something in the man's eyes was startling, frightening—and suddenly I knew exactly who this man was, and it filled me with such intense fear that my heart immediately began to race, and my palms began to sweat.

"I don't know, maybe you just have one of those faces," I decided, praying that I sounded nonchalant. "I hope you find your girl," I added, shrugging. "I don't think there's a Jennifer in this building, though. You could try the main office; it's in the old building with the clocktower on top, you can't miss it."

Nearly two decades of lying to stay alive were what fueled me now, and I forced my heart to still, to calm down, and my too-short nails refrained from tapping impatiently against the door. My tone stayed friendly, if not confused, and I found myself praying that someone—anyone—would walk down the hall. No one did.

"Thank you, miss…" he waited expectantly for my name, and I heard a chorus of alarm bells go off in my head. At that moment, the alarm on my phone went off, and I jumped, startled.

I laughed it off, shaking my head. "Sorry, I have a date tonight, and I really need to get ready. Good luck on your search!"

I closed the door lightly and had to use all my self control to keep from dead bolting it shut. He would hear, he would know. I _did_ turn the tiny lock, the one that could be broken, but it was soundless, and it was something, and it bought me time.

I walked backwards into the room, keeping an eye on the door—and the shadow that was no longer standing in front of it—and turned off the alarm on my phone. I dialed 911 while I could. The reminder of the last time I had called the police on this man appeared in the forefront of my mind, and my hands began to shake as I set my computer to play music—loudly enough that no one eavesdropping could overhear but softly enough that the policeman on the other end of the line could understand me.

 _"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"_ the police dispatcher asked.

"There's a man on my hall," I murmured, taking a deep breath. "He's been stalking me." Suddenly the walk back to the door seemed frighteningly long, and I found myself glancing back at my window and pondering the likelihood of injuries should I have to jump. It wouldn't be the first time I'd had to jump off a building to get away from somebody, and it wouldn't be the last.

 _"Alright, please remain calm—do you know this man?"_

"Yes."

 _"Is he in the room with you?"_

The suggestion made my heart clench in fear, and my breathing grew shallow. Suddenly I felt like a six-year-old again, trapped inside a burning building. "No."

A shadow appeared at the foot of my door, and a whimper escaped my lips. "Please, hurry," I gasped. "I'm on the second hall of Mosley, room Two-Seventeen, please hurry." Tears of fear stung my eyes, and my hand shook so badly I could barely hold the phone steady. "Please hurry."

 _"Ma'am, remain calm. Keep talking, please, we have someone on the way."_

"I c-can't, p-please help me—"

The shadow hadn't moved.

 _"Ma'am—"_

The doorknob turned, and the little lock caught. My breath caught in my throat, and I wrenched the window open as the doorknob jiggled. My phone lay abandoned on the bed. I kicked out the screen and grabbed my phone as the lock clicked—I glanced over my shoulder as the door opened and I jumped—wide brown eyes stared back at me, and the man shouted in anger as I fell two stories. Wind whipped my hair back—I hit the ground—pain shot up my shins—and I rolled.

An instant later, I was on my feet, running for my life.


	2. Chapter 2

_October 14, 1997_

 _"It's alright, Sweetheart, calm down," the officer worked to calm down the little girl, who was practically in hysterics. He was the only male officer remaining in the office—the others were off doing their jobs elsewhere—which was why he'd been called in—the little girl had thrown a fit whenever a female officer had tried to approach her. "Now tell me again what's wrong."_

 _"M-my mom," the girl hiccuped, "and m-m-my br-brother, they're fighting—"_

 _The officers had heard through the grapevine about the Ward sons—specifically about the second oldest, Grant. If he had attacked the matriarch of the household…_

 _"Alright, dear," the man smoothed the girl's hair back, frowning as his hand came away covered with bits of leaf. The little girl had scratches on her face, arms, and bare feet—it was abundantly clear that she'd run through the woods, probably from her own home. "We're sending officers to your house now, alright?"_

 _The little girl nodded, tiny body shaking with sobs, and the officer secured the blanket more firmly around the child. His heart broke for her—no child should have to go through such a traumatic event, especially at such a young age._

 _"Officer Wilde," the Captain rounded the corner and motioned for the junior officer to follow._

 _"Just sit tight, alright?" the young man rose and waited until the girl nodded to follow his senior officer into his office._

 _"Explain the situation, Wilde," the captain ordered, glancing at the little girl, who had fallen completely silent and now jumped at every loud noise—the door slammed, and the child ducked completely under the blanket, so it appeared that it was the only thing occupying the chair._

 _"Samantha Ward, age four," the officer recited softly. "She says her brother and mother are fighting, and she has bruises on her arms, like someone was holding her too tightly."_

 _"Ward. Senator Ward's daughter?"_

 _"Yes, Sir. It's unclear whether the Senator is actually at home, but—"_

 _The Captain interrupted him, his eyes still on the little gray blanket. "Have you dispatched officers to the residence?"_

 _"Yes, Sir. They're on their way. Sir, what do we do about the child?"_

 _The captain sighed. He had two children of his own, with another on the way—and his son was four, like this girl. He couldn't imaging his boy being as terrified as this little girl was. "I'll talk to her; we'll keep her here until the home is deemed fit for her return."_

 _"Yes, Sir."_

 _The captain approached the little girl as the other officer watched from a distance, making sure the child was alright. He knelt down before the chair. "Excuse me," he said softly. The blanket shifted a little, but otherwise there was no sign she'd heard him. "You're safe now," he told her, keeping his voice gentle and soothing. He normally would have called his wife and had her come down to speak to the child, but since she wouldn't let any women approach her, he figured it would do more harm than good. "Nothing bad is going to happen to you while you're here."_

 _The little girl didn't speak. A dog barked, and the little bundle jumped and then shrank as the child curled into a little ball. The Captain's heart broke for her._

 _"I have a son your age," he continued, shifting so that he was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her. "His name's Johnny. He's going to turn five in January. I have a daughter, too—she's almost two year old, and she's about to have a baby brother or sister."_

 _A pair of brown eyes framed by long, damp lashes appeared from among the multiple folds of fabric. He smiled but otherwise didn't move, not wanting to spook her. "Hi, there."_

 _The large eyes blinked once._

 _"My name's Jim. What's your name?"_

 _The girl didn't answer._

 _"That's alright," he nodded. "My daughter has a name: Caroline. And my wife—her name is Amanda—is trying to name our baby, for when it comes. We are trying to decide between Andrew or Lyall, if he's a boy. Amanda thinks she'll be a girl, and she's trying to decide between Elizabeth and Rachel. Now, I think they're both pretty names. Johnny really wants to have a baby brother, and Caroline wants a little sister; I guess we'll just have to wait and see."_

 _He paused for breath, and a small, muffled voice reached him through the blanket. "Samantha."_

 _The captain's smile grew, and his eyes softened. Finally. "Samantha. That's a beautiful name: a princess's name."_

 _The space around her eyes widened, so he could make out the dim outline of dark curls and the few constellations of freckles that danced across her cheeks._

 _"Would you like to meet my family some time?" he asked her. She nodded shyly. "My son is in the main office, would you like to see him?" She nodded again. He extended his hand very carefully, holding his breath—and the little girl managed to free her own hand from the blankets and place it in his. "Alright, Samantha," he helped her slide down from the chair, noticing that she kept the blanket wrapped firmly around her shoulders like a cape. "Come with me."_

~8~8~

October 11, 2013

 _Run run run run run—_

My feet pounded against the pavement and transferred to the grass—I vaulted over a bush and almost ran straight into a tree. Several classes let out all at once, and in a matter of seconds, the quad was full of people. I used the cover to my advantage and slowed down, taking a few seconds to braid my hair down and back, hiding the messy curls from view. I borrowed an abandoned red sweatshirt, left by some forgetful student on a nearby bench, to cover my gray sweater. My phone went into my pocket, and I shoved my hands into the soft pouch of my newly acquired sweatshirt. If anyone glanced my way, looking for a girl with wild hair and a gray jumper, they'd miss me completely. At least, that's what I hoped.

I joined a couple of my sorority sisters on their way to the library, not bothering to complain when we stopped for coffee along the way. I got something cold with lots of caramel and whipped cream and held it tightly, welcoming the freezing feeling in my fingers.

"Sam, are you okay?" Lizzy asked. Lizzy, a track star with a wicked sense of humor, was always the first to notice if someone looked stressed or under the weather.

Lizzy's friend, Marissa, turned her blue eyes on me, just noticing how pale I was—along with something else that was apparently more important than my health. "You're not wearing any makeup!" she cried. "But what about your date—"

I cursed and glanced at the clock—I had thirty minutes to meet Jonathan, though I was sure he'd understand my tardiness if I explained its cause. My phone buzzed, and I ignored it. Obviously keeping alive was more important, but… I swore under my breath. I'd told the man that I had a date.

"I have makeup with me—" Marissa rummaged through her bag and pulled out a nude makeup pouch. I practically snatched it away, an idea forming in my mind.

"I'll be right back."

The next ten minutes were spent erasing scars and bags from my face, making myself over. Not necessarily for Jonathan, either—I needed my stalker to pass me on the street without taking a second glance. Too much makeup drew unwanted attention, as did too little—I needed just enough to look different but not enough to look like a clown. The handle of my knife dug into the back of my thigh.

Marissa joined me in the bathroom, setting her backpack in one of the neighboring sinks. "Here, trade with me." She tugged off her nice, knee-length coat and passed it to me, accepting the sweatshirt in return.

"Thank you so much," I breathed, covering the sweater with the white coat. "You don't know how much this means to me—"

"And these." Marissa tugged off her boots and passed them to me as well, not noticing that I didn't accept them. "Oh, come on—you can't wear running shoes on a date! It's a good thing we wear the same size."

"But—" My mind wasn't on my date, it was on my stalker and how much harder it would be to outrun him in heels. My phone vibrated, and again, I ignored it. Lizzy entered the bathroom and watched in amusement as Marissa's expression hardened.

"Shoes. Off. Now."

I gave in and traded shoes with her. My fox-pattered socks, which normally hugged my feet, threatened to bunch up around my toes. I was sweating—I needed to get moving. I had a bad feeling about this—I was about to demand that I have my shoes back when Marissa glanced at her phone and yelped.

"Go, you're late! Where are you meeting?"

I choked on a swig of my coffee and glanced at my phone. I had several missed calls from my boyfriend. It was fifteen minutes past five. "Oh, sh—"

I dialed him quickly and held the phone to my ear. "Hello? Johnny?"

 _"Sam?"_ the relief in his voice was palpable. _"Oh, thank God—"_

I glanced around the campus, letting Marissa loosen my braid and tug a few curls out to frame my face as we walked back across the quad. Not as many people were out anymore; the lights from the cafeteria shone brightly from the other side of the tree-spotted field. The sun was setting, and the overcast sky made everything seem darker. "Where are you?"

 _"Where am I?"_ His relief wore off, replaced by fear and worry. _"Where are_ you _?" I came by your building, and your screen's been knocked out, and I go inside and your door's been busted open, and there are police everywhere—Sam, what's going on?"_

"Johnny, do you remember my brother?" I asked, her voice catching.

 _"Yeah, of course I do. Why?"_

"Oh, God." A set of familiar eyes met mine from across the quad, and then passed over me. A few seconds later, they darted back, honing in on me. The ground seemed to rock beneath my feet, and everything became much sharper at the same time.

 _"Sam, what's wrong?"_

"Johnny, he's here. He's here—"

 _"Who, Christian? Thomas?"_

The man started forward. "No, not them—Grant." I veered off sharply, heading back towards my building. Johnny said there were police there—

The sharp intake of breath alerted me to Jonathan's fear. _"Sam, get out of there. Where are you?"_

"What's going on?" Lizzy and Marissa jogged to keep up with my pace—the man following me was too. The girls hadn't seemed to realize that they were being followed.

"There's a man following me. Johnny, I'm in the Quad."

 _"I'm on my way."_

"Stay where you are," I ordered shakily, then changed my mind. "Actually, bring the police with you."

"Hey!" The man called.

My stomach lurched, and I sped up. Leaves crunched under my feet, and more than once, the slick heel of my borrowed boots boot skidded against the smooth, cobbled sidewalk.

 _"Don't hang up the phone,"_ Jonathan urged me gently. I barely heard him. I could hear men speaking on the other end—policemen.

"Johnny—"

 _"You're going to be fine, Sammie, I promise."_

"Sam, who is that guy?"

A glance over my shoulder revealed him to be less that twenty yards away—and something inside me snapped. I bolted, running as hard and as fast as I could in the boots I'd been lent. I heard two feminine shouts of surprise and outrage, as well as the sound of heavy breathing right behind me.

I cut to one side, darting down a partially hidden path that led to the library. Muffled cursing came from behind me, as well as the sound of branches being snapped back and twigs being trod on. I emerged onto the sidewalk and dove into the street, not worrying about being hit by an oncoming car—somewhere in the back of my mind were engrained the words, _"Go on, hit me. I dare you! Pay my college tuition"—_ but no one was out, they all were at dinner, and it was getting dark.

I leapt onto the sidewalk and slipped, my left foot sliding to one side—palms met pavement and gravel dug into my hands, tearing into my skin—as I threw my leg around, about to launch myself forward, an arm circled around my waist, jerking me back.

Without a second thought, I screamed, thrashing and kicking and biting and doing everything possible to try and escape. Blood pounded in my ears; panic sang in my veins; my heart beat so hard and fast against my ribs that I thought it might burst. His grip tightened as my heel connected with his knee, and he went down, dragging me with him.

"Let—me—go—" I fought against him, slamming my fists into the side of his head, jamming my elbow into the inside of his arm, where his Median nerve was, trying to squirm around to knee him between the legs. He managed to pin me down, but not before I'd gotten in several direct hits. Blood gushed from his nose and ran down over his lips and chin, staining his shirt.

He'd grown—he was handsome and strong, no longer the sallow-faced, skinny boy who'd tried to kill me more than ten years before. I hadn't spoken to him in more than a decade—my brother, the one who had taken a beating for me more than once—the one whom Christian had forced to hurt Thomas. The one who had tried to murder me alongside our brother.

"Let me go," I pled, shaking. He was too heavy for me to throw off, I'd tried—

I heard voices, and I started screaming again. "Someone, help me! Please, help!" He tried to silence me, and I screamed louder.

A faint voice reached me. "Agent Ward, you got her?"

 _What?_

"We're here!" he yelled. "Stop struggling," my brother ordered more quietly, his grip tightening. "It'll be worse for you if you don't."

"Let me go." I hadn't cried in years, but I found tears pooling in my eyes—I couldn't recall a time in the last decade when I had been more afraid than I was right then. But it was more than that, more than fear—I was _angry_. Words poured from my mouth. "I didn't mean for them to hurt you, I just did what you told me, I didn't—"

My brother looked genuinely confused. "What are you talking about?"

I gasped for breath, shaking horribly. "You win, okay? T-they had me t-t-to themselves after y-you left, we're e-even, we're d- _done_ —"

Grant shook his head, his brow furrowing. "What are you—?"

"I only did what you told me to do—Let me go, _please_!"

 _'I'm going to die. He's going to kill me.'_

~8~8~

Grant Ward studied the young woman's features in the dying light. They were different now than in the dorm—she had on makeup, now, clever—and her hair had been pulled back, though much of it had fallen down in the chase. Bits of leaves and twigs stuck out at odd angles. He finally looked into her eyes, and he felt his body go numb. A vivid memory—that of a little girl wrapped in a plaid blanket with leaves in her tangled hair, sobbing into the chest of a police officer as he himself was taken away, arrested and taken in for questioning. He blinked, and the little girl was gone, replaced by the young woman he had pinned to the ground.

"Sammie?" His grip on her loosened, and she elbowed him in the throat, bringing her hand straight across his forearm as she made to strike him. Pain exploded in both places as he lost the ability to breathe. He fell back, shocked and gasping for breath, choking on the uncomfortable, painful sensation. She scrambled back away from him, panting. She didn't wait for him to recover from his pain—she turned and ran. Grant stared after her, dazed, a hand to his throat—a hand that he realized a moment later was slick with blood—she'd had a knife.

There was no way that this was Sammie— _his_ Sammie. She was so _big_ , so _strong_ —so _angry_.

Grant shook his head and coughed. This wasn't Sammie. This girl was someone else—S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent him to apprehend her, after all. It was just a coincidence that she looked like his sister… and what had she been babbling about?

He scowled, moving back into a crouched position as he wheezed. Maybe she _was_ just as dangerous as the others had said. He rolled up his sleeve—she'd sliced down his forearm just enough to injure, but not to kill.

"Ward, what happened?" Another agent ran up, taking in his bloody, haggard appearance. He lifted an eyebrow, which disappeared under the brim of the hat he was wearing—he and the others, except for Grant, were dressed as police officers, ever since the girl had decided to pull the stunt of calling the police. Grant had to hand it to her, not many wanted fugitives would be brave (or stupid) enough to call the police. "A little girl did this?"

"Woman," Ward corrected bitterly, accepting a hand up as he hacked and coughed. He winced, bringing a hand to his chest—she'd bruised or fractured several of his ribs. He hadn't noticed in the heat of the moment, but he noticed now. She hadn't used any particular fighting style that he'd recognized; it was more raw, more emotional. She had been genuinely afraid—and scarily angry. "She's dangerous."

"She's useful." Another member of the strike team walked up, nodding at a voice in his comms. He gestured towards the other end of the campus. "She's heading for the cafeteria."

"Agent Holt, intercept," Ward ordered into his earpiece, shaking his head to clear it. This was not his sister. "Bring her in using whatever means necessary."

 _"Yes, Sir."_


	3. Chapter 3

_October 11, 1997_

 _"_ _You should count yourself lucky that no one was hurt. Did you hear me, boy?" the officer gripping Grant's shoulder shook him, and he nodded, scanning the crowd. His mother was being treated by the paramedics—no one was bothering to check on_ him _._

 _"_ _Yeah, I hear you." Grant shifted from foot to foot, running his tongue over his loose tooth._ Self defense, _she'd said._

 _"_ _Ma'am," the deputy strode over to Mrs. Ward, who was being treated for a mild concussion. Grant had felt a swell of pride when he'd heard that. "I would suggest sending that one away for a while, just until he gets his head on straight."_

 _"_ _My husband and I already have everything worked out," she reassured him, offering him what appeared for all the world to be a kind, brave face. The look she shot her son a moment later was anything but._

 _"_ _Your daughter is down at the police station," the man continued. "The Captain thought it best she stay out of the way until this is all over."_

 _"_ _I completely agree," she said, nodding vigorously and then wincing in pain._

 _"_ _Son," a younger officer came up to Grant and steered the angry young boy away from the crowd. "I'm going to ask you something, and I want the truth. Understand?"_

 _Grant nodded warily. "Now, I was the one to talk to your sister when she was in the station, all brown eyes and tremors. And I'll tell you something—she wouldn't let a single female officer come near her; the only ones who she let close were myself and the Captain. Now," he continued. "If you're the problem, that's fine. But if it's your mother that's the reason why that sweet little girl clammed up in a ball for a solid hour and wouldn't talk to anyone, I need to know. Do you understand me?"_

 _The look in Grant's eyes shook the young officer to the core, and he knew in his gut that the kid was lying when he shook his head and said, "Yes sir. Mother isn't the problem. I am."_

 _The officer lifted an eyebrow. "So you are the reason why your sister has bruises all over her body?"_

 _Grant's eyes widened as the blood drained from his face, and the kid's lips pressed together to tightly they turned white. He looked furious—and he was staring past the officer at someone else. The officer turned to look. It was the eldest of the Wards, Christian. He was watching Grant with an expressionless face, as though he didn't care at all what was going on._

 _"_ _Grant." The boy turned his attention on the officer. "If you're the one who's been protecting her, and you're going away, she's going to be left alone. If there's anything you want to tell me, do it now, before it's too late."_

 _"_ _There's not."_

October 14, 2011

The next time I opened my eyes, it was dark, and my head hurt. The first flash of panic I felt made me think that I was locked in the basement again, but that fear passed as quickly as it had come. I tried to look around, but there was nothing to see—and as I thought, as memories returned, I figured something out: I was in a cell. A _cell._

The last person I remembered talking to had been my brother. Grant. The one who'd abandoned me and then tried to kill me as a child.

I scrambled to my feet, reaching out my arms to blindly feet for the walls. I was in a room smaller than my dorm room—and that was saying a lot. It was about ten by ten feet, windowless, and, apparently, doorless.

Hysteria rose in my throat, and I moved to sit in the middle of the room where I couldn't feel any of the walls. I knew from being locked in closets and basements that when experiencing a panic attack caused by claustrophobia, the best thing to do—for me, anyway—was to go where I couldn't feel the walls. It made the space feel bigger.

"It's okay," I whispered to myself, holding my right hand in my left and twisting the ring that was mercifully still on my finger. "Everything's gonna be okay. Breathe. You're not in a basement, your parents aren't here—" my breathing hitched and grew labored. My parents might not be here, but my brother was, and I didn't know which was worse. "Your parents aren't here, they can't hurt you—"

Why had this happened? I haven't seen Grant in a decade, haven't spoken to him in longer—he went to prison when I was only seven years old, more than a decade before—so why was he here now? _Why is he after me?_

~8~8~

"Good work, Agent," the officer nodded in approval to the young man, who nodded jerkily in response. The superior officer glanced over the younger man, taking in his bloodied appearance. "She didn't come in easily?"

"No, sir," Grant Ward replied, glancing bitterly at the monitors. The girl was sitting cross-legged in the center of the room, muttering to her self. Not a good sign; was she planning on pleasing insanity is brought to court? "She jumped out a window when I first encountered her."

"Did she really?" The officer gave a small smile. "We've been looking for her for a long time."

"Sir, something odd happened when I first met her." This had been on his mind all day—when he'd asked for a Jennifer Guiles, she'd seemed genuinely confused—and until she'd noted that he looked familiar, she hadn't seemed threatened by his appearance at all. Once she noted his familiarity, she had panicked—she was good at hiding it, incredibly good—but not good enough. He'd seen the brief flicker of fear in her eyes as she closed the door, noted when she'd jumped at the sound of her phone ringing. All this on top of her locking the door and leaping out the window… and then she'd started talking about how she'd only done what he'd asked, and she didn't mean for him to be hurt—what had she been talking about? "She seemed… afraid of me."

"Yes, that tends to happen when one is being arrested," the older man commented, watching the girl's image on the screen.

Grant shook his head in frustration. "Yes, sir, but it was something more than that—"

"Son," Agent Garrett clapped his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "She's a fugitive. She would have done anything to get away from you, as is evident from your broken nose. Go question her, see what you can find out."

"Sir, I don't know if that's a good idea—" he wasn't too keen on being attacked again, especially if she was as crazy as she appeared.

"John!" Another agent strode down the hall and glanced between the two of them. "A word?"

"Phil!" Garrett clapped Coulson on the back and nodded in dismissal to Grant. "Go wait outside the interrogation room, we'll send her to you."

"You got her?" Phil Coulson asked, glancing after Ward as he strode off to the other side of the compound. "I don't normally get called in for little missions like these."

"Jennifer Guiles," Garrett glanced down at an embarrassingly short file. "Age twenty-three. Born in Richmond, Virginia, and was adopted by Stephen and Elizabeth Guiles as a baby."

"And?"

"And this isn't her." Garrett tossed the file onto the table between them, scattering its contents. A picture of the suspect was among the papers, and while the two girls shared a few similarities: caucasian, dark hair—it was clear that the girl in custody was not the girl in the file.

"So who is she?" Coulson gestured towards the cell to the girl who couldn't have been more than eighteen years old.

"We don't know." Garrett shook his head in frustration. "We have people working on it now, but she got rid of all identification before we captured her, including driver's license, phone, student ID, everything."

"Facial recognition?"

"We're trying. It looks like she wiped the system of herself. She's just… gone."

Coulson shook his head in disbelief. "There's no way she could do that from here. Unless she has friends?"

"We're checking on that. There was a kid in her room—a student. He was on the phone with her while our agents were in the room, but he disappeared soon after we captured her, and we haven't been able to track him down yet."

Coulson nodded. "And you think he could have erased her."

"Maybe. But that's not the problem—I want to know _why._ "

"So why did you think that she and Jennifer are the same person?"

"Because Jennifer's fingerprints are the same as this girl's."

Coulson glanced at his friend. "Impossible. Unless she's on the Gifted Index?"

Garrett shrugged. "It's possible. _Or_ , it's a possibility that this girl—" he pointed at the screen at Samantha, who was being led, blindfolded, into the hall by a pair of guards. "—created her."

~8~8~

I didn't struggle as I was led out of my suffocatingly small cell. I needed to get out, no matter what the cost was—and the instant I crossed the threshold into a hallway, my breathing became easier. I didn't bother asking where they were taking me; I knew they wouldn't answer.

It was several minutes later that I heard a door open and I was led into another room. My socked feet padded against the cool floor. I was sat down in a chair and, before I really knew what was happening, my arms were strapped down, my wrists tied to the arms of the chair. My heart rate spiked almost immediately, and I jerked against the bonds, terrified. I couldn't see, I was tied down—years of torture and abuse made me struggle for my life, and it wasn't until someone removed the blindfold that I was able to breathe.

"Stop fighting." I didn't recognize the man in front of me. He was older—maybe in his mid 40s. He was balding, but his eyes were sharp. "I'm here to ask you a few questions, I suggest you answer them honestly."

Another man was fiddling with something on the table, attaching things to my skin. "Why am I here?" I sat still but continued to fidget, twisting my wrists so that the velcro dug into my skin. It was a coping mechanism I'd discovered years ago—the discomfort kept me grounded. He hooked me up to the machine, which I recognized as a polygraph—a lie detector.

"I ask the questions, not you." The man opened a folder. Before he could say another word, he touched a small earpiece and nodded. "I understand. Yes, sir." He left, leaving the file on the desk.

I sat still for almost a minute, growing more and more panicked by the second. How many times had I been left alone—tied up or free—in a room where there were no windows, no doors—left to fear when might happen, what consequence or punishment I might face? How many times had I tried to run away, only to be found by the man and woman who called themselves my parents? I didn't know why they had treated me the way they had, and I had never received an answer—other than a slap—when I had questioned their motives, so I had given up. I did know that sitting and waiting for torture wasn't going to work for me, and I was about three seconds away from overturning my chair when the door slid open.

It was Grant.

~8~8~

"What are you doing here?"

It wasn't a question, not exactly—it was a growl, a demand. Frankly, it startled him—the girl looked so much like his baby sister—it was hard for him to set aside the frightened child he'd known from the angry, frightened young woman in front of him.

"I'm here to ask you a few questions."

~8~8~

He looked so much like our father, it was disconcerting. He looked so much like Christian, too—and Thomas, though Thomas's hair and bearing were lighter.

"Like what?" I stared him down, trying to hide the growing panic I felt. I hated being tied down. I couldn't even wear scarves or necklaces or bracelets because they felt too constricting. Maybe if I played nice, they'd untie me. Then again, maybe not. The device that tracked my heart rate was going crazy, something Grant noticed immediately.

"Let's start with your name," he stated, sliding into his chair. He folded his hands over the file and glanced it over. "It's not Jennifer Guiles, that's for sure. This picture isn't even of you."

I blinked. "You don't know my name?" I was genuinely stunned. If he didn't know who I was, then he couldn't kill me. He wasn't after me, at least not as Samantha—but then, why had he called me Sammie?

"Obviously not."

This could work to my advantage. Maybe if I irritated him enough, got someone else in the room to talk to her, I could walk out of this alive. My heart rate began to slow. "You called me 'Sammie.' Who is she?"

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "What is your name?"

I had struck a nerve, that was obvious—and I wasn't sure that I had done the right thing, either. I kept my mouth shut, watching him closely. I couldn't give my middle name, he knew it already—and if they discovered I was lying to them, they'd hurt me.

He leaned back, wiping his face clean of emotion. "Fine. Let's start with something easier." He gestured to her, then crossed his arms. "Where'd you get those scars?"

My breath hitched, and one of the polygraph's needles jumped. "What?"

"The scars. On your face," he clarified. "They're faint, sure, but they're there—I saw them when I was outside your room, and again, now that your makeup's been rubbed off. They're not burns, and they're not deep enough to be from an animal. They're not new, either—a few years old, at least. So tell me, where did they come from?"

I couldn't breathe. I remembered being thrown across the room, hitting my head on the corner of the table—running through the woods and running headfirst into a jagged branch—

"I need an answer."

The only answer I could think of was the truth. "My parents." The words were barely audible.

Grant leaned forward, glancing at the polygraph. "Excuse me?"

"My parents," I repeated. My lips were numb. "They—" I swallowed—my mouth was dry. "They hurt me."

He frowned and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, able to see for himself that I was telling the truth. "I see."

"You seem uncomfortable."

The words came without my bidding, but I couldn't stop them. There were times—like now—when I knew exactly what to say to get a reaction out of someone, especially if I knew things about them—like the abuse he suffered at the hands of our parents. I knew how to play him, and others—but it always left a bad taste in my mouth. This was worse, somehow—it was my brother—but at the same time, I felt a sick feeling of satisfaction at seeing him squirm.

"Tell me about your parents," he glanced at the file again and made a note. I couldn't help but notice that the entire thing, for the most part, was blank. I looked at him, my face clear of emotion, waiting for him to speak again. After a few minutes, he obeyed.

"Answer me," he practically growled.

I had to hold back a smile. I was in my element. I _loved_ being in control—after decades of not being able to do anything for myself, of being at the mercy of someone else, I relished having someone at my mercy—I shook my head. No, I didn't.

The thought made me sick, and I swallowed the taste of bile that rose in my throat. I hated when thoughts like those popped into my head, and I battled against them every day.

I didn't want to be like Christian.

"Well?"

I looked him in the eye. "They tortured me," I replied evenly, trying to hide the shudder that made the hairs on my arms and neck stand on end—my arms were still covered by my sweater. "They would lock me in the basement for days without any food. They would beat me and—and other things," I breathed, trying to keep from throwing up. _Don't think about it._ "During the school year I wasn't beaten as often because people at school would have noticed. Summers were worse."

Grant looked sick. As soon as he noticed I was looking, his face went blank. "And no siblings? No one helped you?"

There were a thousand answers to that question, a thousand ways I could have answered the question he had thrown at me and still have been telling the truth. I had a brother. I had a few brothers. They left me. _You_ left me. They were worse that my parents—except for Thomas. But even he left me, though I didn't blame him.

I chose the simplest, the one that didn't hurt me quite as badly. "No."

The polygraph said I was telling the truth. Grant glanced down at his notes and added something in the margins. "How old are you?"

"Younger than you."

His empathy vanished, replaced by irritation. "Answer me."

I leaned forward as far as possible, glaring at him. I was done playing games, and I was done talking about myself. I didn't like being vulnerable, though at times I couldn't help it, and I was making up for it now by being angry instead. "How about you answer a question of mine. Why am I here?"

"Did you create Jennifer Guiles because of your parents?" he asked instead.

I tilted my head, watching him. _Jennifer Guiles._

After a few minutes of silence, he leaned back, his frustration evident. "I have all day."

I smiled wryly. "I know."


	4. Chapter 4

_November 19, 1997_

 _"_ _I'm going away for a while, okay?" Grant crouched down beside his little sister, feeling his heart break at the sight of her tear filled eyes. Not for the first time, he felt a twinge of regret at denying his mother's involvement in abusing him and his siblings, but… but when he'd been asked, she had been staring right at him, and she'd told them before—if you tell anyone, I'll make you wish you were dead._

 _There was something seriously wrong with that woman—and he was leaving his sister alone with her. Well, not alone—Thomas was there, as was Christian. Christian might not bully the younger two as much, since he couldn't get Grant to do it for him: though Grant had never laid so much as a finger on Sam. It was his parents he was worried about—his father was getting more involved._

 _"_ _When are you coming back?" the four-year-old wrapped her skinny arms around her brother's neck, and Grant hugged her back tightly._

 _"_ _Soon," he promised. As soon as he turned eighteen, he was going back and getting her out of that hellhole._

 _"_ _Just stay close to Jonathan, okay?" Jonathan was the son of the police captain. As long as that family knew what was going on with her, she'd be safe. "If anything bad happens, tell Jonathan's dad, alright?"_

 _She nodded, and a heartrending sob tore from her throat as he stood. "G-Grant, d-d-don't go, p-p-_ please! _"_

 _"_ _I have to go, Sammie." He reached down and took her hand, but was led away and forced to let her go. "I'll come back for you, I promise! I love you!"_

~8~8~

October 14, 2011

After almost an hour of silence, Grant stood up. He moved so quickly that I jumped, startled, and he made his way to stand directly in front of me.

During my time in silence, I had concentrated on meditating, trying to ignore the bonds that held me to the chair. I hated being confined more than anything… except being cornered. During my meditation, it was easy to forget that the man in front of me, besides being my brother, was a psychopath who had tried to kill his brother and sister. It wasn't so easy anymore, not when he was standing right in front of me, all muscles and anger.

"Fine." He reached down quickly, and I flinched, but he didn't touch me—he just pulled out other straps to cross over my hips, chest, and upper arms, which he tightened to the point that I could barely breathe, let alone escape. I was too stunned to try and do anything to escape, struck dumb with terror when I realized that I couldn't move. "Have it your way." He turned to leave. "Let me know when you're ready to talk."

I found my voice, and it was shrill with fear—hearing it reminded me of the terrified child he had once known. "Untie me, please. Grant, please!" The name fell from my lips before I could stop it, and my brother stopped dead, halfway out the door. He turned slowly and reentered the room, closing the door behind him.

"What did you just call me?"

There was no way I should have known his name. I had only heard his partners call him Ward, there was no way I should have known who he was. I stared at him blankly, panicking, trying to find a suitable answer that didn't get me killed—

"I won't ask again." He moved forward until his hands were gripping my forearms and his face was inches from mine—my reflection stared back at me from the depths of his eyes, which were like wells—like the one he and Christian had thrown Thomas into when I was three. I could feel his breath on my face, feel his heartbeat through his skin. His fingers dug into my arm, and pain shot up my nerves and into my shoulders. "How do you know my name?"

A whimper rose in my throat, and his expression hardened. I then said three words I had never spoken to him before—I had never _had_ to say them to him before—and they seemed to have a strong effect on him. "You're hurting me."

He let go as though burned and stepped back. His face was ashen, as though he'd seen a ghost. I sat stock still, terrified to move. "You stay here," he finally ordered. A moment later, he was gone.

My eyes burned, and I blinked rapidly, letting my head fall back to stare up at the ceiling—metallic, hexagonal tiles made it up, as they did the rest of the cell. My arms throbbed where his hands had gripped me too hard.

There was a time when I would have run screaming to Grant when I was in trouble. Now, I was running screaming away from him. He terrified me. There was something about him, something in his eyes—it was beyond anger, beyond concentration—it was murderous. Some sort of predatory glare that scared the life out of me. It was almost impossible to equate this version of Grant to the one who promised he would always protect me—and with every passing moment, it was easier to equate him to the man Christian had told me he was: the one who hurt Thomas, who left me with our parents, who tracked me down and burned down the house for running and fetching the police all those years ago. Somewhere, deep down, I faintly remembered the good in him, how he would steal me away when I was afraid and read stories to me and lie to our mother and say I wasn't home. But, just like every old memory, they were fading… and after a decade of propaganda, I wasn't sure what to believe.

Someone else walked into the room, interrupting my thoughts—and this man frightened me more than Grant did. Almost. It was something about his smile, the way it stretched across too much of his face but didn't reach his eyes—and his eyes, which glittered in the florescent light. Something about him reminded me of a snake.

"So." The man took a seat and crossed his ankle over his knee before tilting his head and observing me. "I hear you've been giving my agents a rough time." He waited as though expecting a response, but I didn't give him one. I just stared back at him, waiting for him to cut to the chase. He was trying to play me, to make me comfortable. "You didn't give Agent Ward the information he wanted, but that's alright—you gave him something else. Your parents."

My eyes narrowed, and my heart sped up. I told them I was abused, which was a surefire way of telling them that I feared abuse and small spaces and being restrained—what would they do to me to get information? And what information did they want in the first place?

"You know, Agent Ward went through a similar situation growing up," the man stated calmly. I tried to look as though this was news to me—why would he share this with me? People didn't just give away personal information about their fellow agents, I knew that—I knew enough about doctor-patient confidentiality to know that this wasn't something you were supposed to do.

 _Do. Not. Trust. Him_.

"He was abused by his parents and brother, but he made it out, and I found him."

This was the man who freed him from prison, the one who, for all intents and purposes, kidnapped my brother for a decade.

"I saw potential in him." He gave me a crooked smile and spread his hands.

Potential for what? Being a killer? My brother was a _psychopath._

His next words shook me to the core, and I hope he didn't see how badly they affected me. "And I see it in you."

"Potential." I tasted the word and found it wanting. I couldn't let him know that I knew how worthless his offer was, but I wanted to make my feelings known, and I spat my opinion back at him. "You want information."

"True, that would help." He leaned back comfortably, tugging at his dark turtleneck, under which I could see a horrible burn scar. How did he get that? "It would get you out of here faster."

I wasn't biting—I was doing an interrogation of my own. I wanted to know what they wanted to hear. "What information do you want?" I asked.

The man looked smug, as though he'd gotten exactly what he had wanted. "I want to know about Jennifer Guiles," the man stated. _Jennifer Guiles._ Why couldn't I get away from that name? "Adopted as a child, squeaky clean record. _However_ ," he continued, watching me closely, "we can't seem to find anything on her. No phone records, email address, social media, nothing. Just a birth certificate and a Social Security number. Do you want to explain that little mystery?"

"What does this have to do with me?" I asked instead, keeping my voice level.

I knew _exactly_ what it had to do with me, actually, but I didn't know why it was so important to them. Whomever 'they' were. CIA? FBI? I had a feeling that it was higher up even than them, somehow. And also… they didn't want this information because of the legal stuff—they would have arrested me, not abducted me. This was about something else, something more.

"I was hoping you might ask that." The man sat forward, resting his chin in his hand while tracing indistinguishable shapes on the surface of the table with the other. "We tried to find you, you know. Anything—name, birth records, anything—but we couldn't find so much as a Twitter account. We asked around campus, tried to find your boyfriend, but he's up and vanished too. It's like neither of you actually exist."

"That's strange."

And it was—I had no idea how it had happened. It wasn't supposed to happen for years, until after I had graduated college. It certainly wasn't supposed to happen now—and who had erased me? That wasn't part of the plan. Samantha Ward was supposed to come up dead, and Jennifer Guiles was supposed to pop up on the grid half a world away. A clean break, everyone would be happy.

"Very." He listened to something, someone speaking through an earpiece. "Ah. Thank you, Agent. Tell Agent Ward to take a walk, will you? He doesn't need to see this."

A pit formed in my stomach as my mind jumped to the obvious conclusion. He was going to hurt me. My hands balled into fists, and he noticed. "Oh, I'm not going to hurt you!" he shook his head. "Oh, no. No, I want to ask you something." He paused. "Does the name _Samantha_ mean anything to you? Samantha Ward?"

"No."

"Rookie mistake," the man shrugged, ignoring me. "Turns out you left a copy of a short story in your room—and that name was at the top of the first page. Strange coincidence, running into another Ward. And both of you having abusive childhoods…" He shrugged. "Of course, there are a couple deviations: he's never mentioned a sister to me, and you said on record that you didn't have any siblings." The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. "However, there were a couple things that caught my attention. Want to help me out, Sammie?"

"Don't—" I swallowed. "Don't call me that."

His look was triumphant, and I shut my mouth, gritting my teeth. "So that is your name. You go by Sammie? Sam?"

I glared at him, hating him more and more with every word he spoke, but didn't say another word. I needed to get out of here.

"There actually was another thing, too. Just now—you knew his name. His first name."

The two of us sat in silence for a long time, neither saying a word. Finally, the man spoke again. "While we're on the topic of names," he said, shifting his weight—the chair creaked in protest but didn't break— "I'll tell you mine. John Garrett."

The name rang a bell, but I couldn't think of why.

"Why don't you tell me how you know my agent's name, Ms. Ward," Garrett said calmly.

"Why am I here?" I asked softly, tapping my foot against the ground lightly. "It wasn't to exchange pleasantries."

"Yes, I know. You're here to answer a few questions—once you answer, you may go. I believe Ward told you the same thing before you let slip and called him by his first name. And for someone who doesn't know why she's here, you're being incredibly uncooperative."

My head started to ache, a dull pain that started behind my eyes and made its way into my temples and cheekbones. "Look." I shifted a little, wincing as the straps dug into my skin. One was tugging my sweater up, and creases were appearing on my skin where the velcro had chaffed at it for so long. I tried to play for time, figure something out, but I had no idea what I could do. There was no exit strategy, I didn't have a partner waiting to rescue me—I was completely alone. "You sent a strange man to apprehend me, then kidnapped me and tied me to a chair—no one would be cooperative."

Garrett half raised his hand. "I actually have a question about that." He gestured quite a lot, I noticed. "We send Agent Ward to scout the place out; he asked you about Jennifer Guiles, and not five minutes later, you were jumping out of a window to avoid him. It's hard to ignore that, Ms. Samantha."

"I wasn't…" I took a deep breath and changed tactics. I would start over later—but giving up this secret was better than giving up the information on my relation to Grant. _I wasn't running because of Jennifer Guiles, I was running because I thought Grant was going to kill me. He still might._ "He caught me off guard. I didn't think anyone would know about her, especially not so early in the game."

"Game?" Garrett repeated, frowning. "What game?"

I sighed, pretending I had given in. Once I got out of here, I would learn to lie better. "I told your Agent that I was abused. I managed to get away from my parents, and my grades were enough to get me into college. I knew they'd come after me, or I'd be traced back to them, so I created somebody else."

Garrett nodded. "Jennifer Guiles."

I nodded in confirmation and tapped my socked toe against the ground. The cold had long since seeped into my feet, making the thin covering redundant, but the orange, fox patterned socks brought a small level of comfort as I sat, talking my way out of what I knew to be a very dangerous situation. "I created her so that once I graduated from college, I could disappear. I could come somebody else. Somebody with no relation to my own past."

We sat in silence for nearly a minute before Garrett finally spoke. "Thank you for your time, Ma'am," Garrett tipped an invisible hat in my direction, then rose to leave. "I'll send someone to take you back to your room."

~8~8~

"Something about her story doesn't add up."

Garrett nodded to his partner and turned to face the screen—Samantha was trying to free herself from her bonds, or at least loosen them, and wasn't having much luck. "Coulson, good to see you; I'm glad to see you're taking an interest in my work. How much did you hear?"

"Enough." Coulson crossed his arms, hugging his binder close to his chest. "She doesn't seem to realize that Ms. Guiles has a criminal record and her fingerprints; she only seemed worried about her backdoor to escaping her parents being closed."

"Yeah, she didn't seem to know a lot of things," Garrett commented snidely. "Like how she knew Ward's name, for instance. Did you check the Index?"

"I did, and Guiles isn't on it, though that doesn't mean much. You don't think they're related, do you?" Coulson glanced at Garrett. "Mr. and Ms. Ward."

Garrett shrugged. "I can see a few similarities, not the least of which is their stubbornness," he muttered, "but he's never mentioned a sister to me before, and there aren't any records of a Samantha Ward—not that _that_ means anything, since her records were erased. Besides, if she was able to create one person, who's to say that Samantha Ward isn't a cover as well?"

"Have you asked him?" Coulson asked.

"No. Something about the way she gave in just now—telling the truth about Ms. Guiles. She's scared of him, for some reason, and she's hiding it. However," he gestured to the polygraph, "not well enough—she couldn't hide the fact that meeting Ward scared her so badly that she jumped out a window rather than talk to him."

"You think she knows him?"

"Maybe. Could be his reputation as an agent preceded him; it'd make sense, since she knew his name. Could be that they really are related, though I don't know that they're siblings. She mentioned not having any siblings, and it was one of the only things she told the truth about, according to the test."

Coulson shook his head. "Keep me posted, and keep an eye on her. She could be useful."

"Where are you going?" Garrett glanced over his shoulder.

"New Mexico."

"And what about her?" Garrett called after him.

Coulson turned around and walked backwards, still speaking. "You said she had potential. Invite her to the S.H.I.E.L.D. academy, train her. Who knows? She could be an asset."


	5. Chapter 5

_December 3, 1998_

 _"_ _Sam. Samantha, look at me. How did this happen?" The police chief lightly touched the lump on the child's forehead, and she flinched away, whimpering. "Did your brother do this?"_

 _When the girl didn't answer, he rocked back on his heels and sighed heavily. She wouldn't say a word—she'd appeared on the stairs of the police station half an hour before, looking for him, and he had been about to head home for the day. He'd taken her with him, and none of his officers had protested against it, as it was the third time in the last month that she had done so. Something horrible was happening at her house, and it hadn't stopped with Grant Ward's being sent to a military academy._

 _"_ _Alright. I want you to talk to Rosalind, okay?" he smoothed back the hair from her forehead. "She's a nurse, she'll be able to help you."_

 _The front door opened, and a child's excited babbling echoed through the foyer. "Daddy, Daddy, guess what!"_

 _Johnny appeared in the doorway, grinning, revealing a gap where a tooth had once been. A plastic baggie was clutched in his fist. His attention was immediately grabbed by the little girl with the brown eyes, whom he immediately gravitated towards. "Samantha?" he climbed up onto the bar stool beside her, puzzled._

 _Rosalind strode into the kitchen, toting several grocery bags and a baby's carseat, complete with baby. "Gavin?" She took one look at the little girl and practically threw down her bags in an attempt to get to the little girl, moving slowly because of her child, which she handed carefully to her husband before kneeling down in front of the little girl. "Samantha, sweetheart, are you alright? What happened?"_

 _"_ _Mommy, she's hurt." Johnny stuck his thumb in his mouth and gazed worriedly at his young friend, watching as his mother fussed over her and ordered her husband to fetch ice from the freezer. His little sister, whom he loved very much, was asleep in her seat, her thumb in her mouth._

 _"_ _How long has she been here?" The mother pressed ice carefully against the bump, speaking softly so as to not hurt the little girl, who complained quietly of a headache—not uncommon, as Rosalind suspected that she might have a concussion._

 _"_ _She showed up at the department almost an hour ago," he murmured, shaking his head. "It's the third time in the last month."_

 _"_ _Is it her parents?" his wife asked, moving to stare at him. Gavin could see the fear in his wife's eyes and could do nothing to alleviate it. "Her brother?"_

 _"_ _She won't say."_

 _"_ _What about the second oldest, Grant?" Rosalind questioned. "Wasn't he arrested about this time last year?"_

 _"_ _He's been gone for a year—he was sent to a military academy after being accused of having attacked his mother." His implication hung in the air—that he was innocent, or at least not the only one involved. "It would have to be one of the others, or both—or the parents. It's a Saturday, so at least three would be home—the mother doesn't work weekends, and the kids don't have school."_

 _"_ _How old are the brothers? If they're above eighteen—"_

 _"_ _The oldest turns eighteen in May; Grant will be sixteen in a month; the youngest boy just turned twelve. Samantha will be six in July. Even the oldest couldn't be held accountable for another six months, and that's assuming that he is the one responsible."_

 _"_ _How do you know?" Rosalind glanced up, holding a finger in front of Samantha's face and murmuring to her to track it's progress with her eyes._

 _"_ _Because I checked the records." The police chief sighed and leaned back against the counted, his hand on his son's shoulder. "I have access, and the law permits it when there is suspected domestic violence. At least, it doesn't discourage it," he muttered._

 _"_ _Gavin—"_

 _"_ _What do you want me to do, Rosie?" Gavin ran his fingers through his hair. "Samantha is at our house more often that she's at home. The rest of the station wants to know what's going on as much as we do, and there's no way to find out—"_

 _Rosalind opened her mouth to protest. "Isn't this enough? She's a five year old girl, and she might have a concussion—"_

 _Gavin cut her off, ranting and furious. Johnny, the sweetheart, slid off his seat and made his way to Samantha. Once her was in front of her, he hugged her tightly, and she hugged him back. "Do you know what they'll say? They'll say that she could have gotten that bump from turning a corner and hitting the doorframe, or tripping on a rug and hitting the floor, or any manner of reasons—and if the parents are responsible, they're going to make those excuses—if the children are responsible, the parents are letting it happen—and obviously they have the poor girl scared out of her mind, she won't talk to me, much less a judge—"_

 _"_ _Are you okay, Sam?" Johnny asked softly, distracting his friend from his parents' worried talking. "You look sad."_

 _"_ _They keep fighting," she whispered back, tears swimming in her big brown eyes._

 _Johnny frowned. "Who?"_

 _Rosalind was on her feet now, and she looked near tears. "Well, if we have proof, maybe we could do something—"_

 _"_ _Of course we could, but we don't have proof, that's the point—"_

 _"_ _Mommy and Daddy," Samantha whimpered. A tear fell from her left eye, landing on the floor between them,_

 _"_ _Are they yelling?" Johnny asked, his eyes widening. His Mommy and Daddy yelled sometimes—like now, for example._

 _She nodded. "And hitting."_

 _"_ _You Daddy hits your Mommy?"_

 _It was at this point that both Gavin and Rosalind tuned into the conversation, and the parents dropped to their knees beside the little girl. "Samantha, does your father hit your mother?" Gavin asked. Samantha shook her head, but didn't say anything else. "Does he hit you?" Again, she shook her head. "Does—does your mother hit you?"_

 _The little girl shook her head. "No," she whispered. No. Her mother did so much worse than that._

~8~8~

October 14, 2011

"So." Grant Ward entered my cell and stood by the door, watching me. I stayed where I was, standing in my corner with my arms by my sides. I was originally in the center of the room, but I had scrambled back when the door had opened, not wanting to be knocked out again. Grant didn't look pleased to see me, though he didn't look murderous either, which was good, I supposed.

"So," I repeated, tilting my head a little to one side.

"I have an offer for you." He closed the door. "You've been offered a place at the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy of Operations."

"S.H.I.E.L.D.?" The name rang a bell—I recognized it as a name for a government agency, like the CIA or FBI—except that it had been founded in the mid-40s after Captain America took down an organization called Hydra. History had been one of my best classes, maybe because I actually enjoyed what I was learning—and I especially loved learning about the World Wars. I just hadn't realized that SHIELD was still up and running—I always assumed that it had faded into the background or was dismantles, like the Soviet Union or the Berlin Wall.

"Strategic Homeland Intervention—"

"—Enforcement and Logistics Division, I know." I cut him off, shaking my head. My brother crossed his arms, not amused. "I learned about it in Advanced U.S. History."

"You're a Junior, then?" Grant asked. "In college."

"Freshman."

He nodded, distracted, and I noticed the warning signs almost too late.

"Look—why is SHIELD interested in me?" I assumed that they were some small, poorly funded organization that had managed to survive the last seven decades on the pitying donations from Captain America fanatics. Why did they want me?

"You have talents that interest them," he answered. "You're smart—taking Junior classes as a Freshman—and Garrett said that you had perfect scores in all of them, except for science, which is why you were _not_ accepted into the Academy of Science and Technology."

"Wait—how do you know my scores?" I interrupted, frowning. "I thought everything about my was erased."

"It was," he assured me. "But you left quite a paper trail in your dorm room—which reminds me, they also are quite impressed with your physical strength and willingness to evade capture, since you jumped out a window to avoid _me_."

"And S.H.I.E.L.D. regularly accepts troubled, unknown variables into their programs?" I asked, crossing my arms to mirror my brother. "You know nothing about me, other that what I've told you and what you've found out from digging through my stuff."

"Oh, you will be monitored, no doubt about that—" Grant shrugged and started pacing. "As for the troubled aspect of your question—S.H.I.E.L.D. accepted me."

I almost didn't ask what he meant, then remembered that I shouldn't know about his past. "Oh?"

"Yeah. I was a… troubled kid." He gave me a small, humorless smile that was meant to put me at ease. I knew better—I was too good at manipulating people to be pulled in. "Got into some trouble with the law."

"Garrett said you had abusive parents," I informed him softly.

His expression turned unreadable, and he glanced away, his jaw locking.

"He also said that he was the one who found you." I moved a little closer. "What did he mean?"

Grant took a deep breath. "Doesn't matter. What does matter is that you will be interviewed by the Academy tomorrow. You either get in, or you go to prison for identity theft and attempted murder."

Until this point, I had been half listening—hearing about how my plan for my life was being flushed down the toilet wasn't exactly riveting. However, that little bit of information sank in, shocking meow of my stupor. "What?! Hold on—"

He continued speaking, talking over me. "—you get in, _if_ you get in, you will be evaluated. The entire time this is going on, you will be monitored. If anyone picks up anything fishy going on—"

"—Shut up! I don't even have a choice?"

"—sent directly to prison."

"Stop it!" I punched him in the arm, furious, not thinking straight. "I haven't done anything, you can't do this!"

"There is a third option," he added, "once we find their location. Being sent home."

I thought for a moment that someone had dumped ice water on my head. The idea of going back to that place terrified me far more than my brother did. The blood drained from my face, and I went numb. "No."

He shoved me back, pinning me to the wall. "Yes," he bit out, just as furious as I. Once again, I saw the murderous light of a psychopath in his eyes, and rage rose within me, so strong that I almost screamed. I didn't.

I attacked him instead.

I pulled out all the stops—throwing punches and kicking—kicking him was like kicking a refrigerator. I knew he was better—older, stronger—but I was faster. I was able to duck under his punches, but I couldn't move in close because his reach was longer than mine by half a foot. I didn't flinch when I took a hit, not like newbies would—I had taking punches since I was in elementary school. I took a couple hits—they almost knocked me down or out—and gave some back. He seemed to remember the last time we'd fought and didn't look excited to let me in close again—fine by me.

He grabbed my wrist, pulling me around, and I hit the wall—I dropped to the ground and kicked his legs out from under him, then retreated to the other corner—if it were a real fight, I would run away or end his life or knock him out, but I didn't have the tools to do that, and climbing on top of him would get me hurt or killed.

He climbed to his feet. "Good technique."

My bruised wrist was throbbing, as was my shoulder from where he had jerked me around. I sank down into a defensive position, breathing heavily. I was exhausted—while I was strong from working out and running, I wasn't used to hand to hand combat, especially for this long.

He was on me in a flash and had me on the ground a moment later. I didn't remember how, but I pieced it together—my jaw ached horribly, and I thought I might throw up—he had punched me in the face. I made to roll over, and he pressed my shoulder down, pinning me to the ground with my cheek against the mat.

"What sort of home did you come from?" he muttered. A moment later, he released me, and I rose unsteadily to my feet, then collapsed against the wall, barely able to keep awake.

"You're going to be transferred to the Academy in the morning," he told me, not looking at all apologetic. "That was your interview; congratulations, you passed the test."

Another agent walked inside and set a change of clothes on the floor by the door. "Go shower and change," the woman commanded, though not entirely unkindly. "Then report to the medical bay. You will be fetched at oh-six-hundred for transport to the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy. Do not be late."

She turned and left, and Grant moved to do the same. "Wait—" I pulled myself up the wall, trembling—I was having trouble breathing. "Wait. Why does—why does S.H.I.E.L.D. care about me?" I released my hold on the wall and stood as tall as possible without its support. "You said—you said I was smart. There—are _countless_ people who are—are smarter that me." I was having some trouble catching my breath, but I pressed on. "So why me? What makes me so special?"

Grant took a couple steps towards me and stood with his arms crossed, watching me curiously. "Potential."

~8~8~

January 1, 2012

"As you can see, our cadets are a part of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s finest," the agent boasted. "If you wish, you may have a look at our shooting range—we've expanded and improved it since your time here, Sir."

"I should hope so." The agent smiled grimly. He surveyed the cadets as he walked—most of them were shooting bulls-eyes, though very few had taken up archery, which disappointed him. He was almost through looking over the range when a long figure caught his eye, unique because of how many times she had missed the targets. She had her booth backlit, though he couldn't immediately see why, as it cast a shadow over the target and made it difficult to see. When he realized what she was up to, he smiled. This would be interesting. Either she was one of the worst at aiming he had ever seen, or she was nearly as good as he was. One way to find out.

"What about her?"

"Who?" The instructor faltered and cleared her throat, eyes on the young woman. "She—she's relatively new here, Sir. She's only been here about six weeks—"

The Level 7 Agent nodded absently and left the booth, heading down to meet this young cadet who, to most, should have no business stepping foot in a shooting gallery.

"Excuse me, miss?" he watched as the young woman let a knife fly before straightening and looking him dead in the eye, flipping off the lights behind her. She was tall—only an inch shorter than he was, were they both to walk around barefoot. Dark hair, dark eyes, pale complexion. She didn't seem curious about being stopped, which made him wonder how many times her instructors had ordered her to pack up her gear and try again later.

She glanced at the woman behind him, then stood with her hands folded behind her back and her feet slightly apart, watching him with the blank stare he'd come to associate, not with absolute obedience, but with angry defiance. "Yes, Sir?"

"I'm Agent Barton, of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"I assumed."

Agent Barton caught the barest flicker of a smile as the corner of the girl's lips twitched, and her eyes softened for the barest moment. Maybe she wasn't as angry or robotic as she seemed, but something about her—besides her abysmal targeting skills—caught his attention.

"Agent Barton," her instructor glared at her, exasperated. "This is—"

"She can speak for herself, I'm sure," Barton cut her off, though not unkindly.

The girl's eyebrows arched in surprise, and there was no mistaking the mischievous glint that had appeared in her eyes. "Samantha Ward."

"Well, Ms. Ward." He offered her his hand, which she accepted, and then nodded towards the targets. "I have a question about your talent with a blade."

The instructor snorted, and the two turned to face her. There was no mistaking the flash of dislike that crossed the cadet's face, dislike that was mirrored on the face of her instructor. "Is there a problem?" Agent Barton asked.

"Ward, unlike most of our cadets, cannot hit the broad side of a barn." She shook her head. "Placements are coming up—and unless something changes drastically in the next week, then—" Barton blinked, and there were two knives embedded in the wall behind the woman, who kept talking, apparently taking no notice. "—have no place at the academy. Excuse me."

She turned and left. Barton turned to face Samantha Ward, who was eyeing her handiwork fondly.

"You missed," he stated flatly.

Dark eyes flashed in his direction. "I did not."

"Were you aiming for her?"  
"You could say that."

"Then you missed."

The young woman, who Barton realized after a moment couldn't have been more than eighteen, turned to face him with her arms crossed. "I'm not an idiot, Agent Barton. I know why you came down here."

"And why is that?"

She sighed and looked him over. "You're about her height." She took his arm and tugged him over a couple feet. He let her, knowing very well what she was doing. He faced the wall, standing exactly where the instructor had stood a moment before. "Don't move," he heard the girl say. A moment later, the girl reappeared with a piece of chalk. Where she'd gotten it, he didn't know. She strode to the wall and traced the outline of his shadow, and he grinned. By the time she stepped away and turned back to him, he had schooled his features to be calm again, but inside, he was giddy.

"This is why you came down here," she said, gesturing to the knives, which were buried halfway to the hilt in the wall in-between his shadow's eyes and over its heart. It had to be at least twenty feet from him to the wall. "Because you saw what I was doing. No one else has, yet."

"And why are you doing this, exactly?" Barton asked, genuinely curious.

She shrugged. "Everyone here likes coloring inside the lines. Whoever doesn't, washes out. My instructor wants to kick me out—she doesn't know what I can do."

"So why not show her?" Barton asked. He didn't understand this girl—she got into the Academy, which was a huge accomplishment in and of itself—but she seemed to hate it here, willing to wash out rather than follow protocol. She seemed the kind of person who'd make up her own rules if the written ones weren't working for her, and he liked that about her. Unfortunately, that sort of thinking could be dangerous—he needed to learn more about her before committing.

Samantha Ward glanced back at him and held his silvery gaze with her dark one, refusing to break eye contact with him. "Because I don't care what they think of me." She placed her hand on her hip, tilting her head to glare up at the stands. Barton caught sight of a deep anger inside her, though he had no idea what that anger was from—or for. "Or whether they know what I can do." She gave a little huff of tired laughter. "It's better if they _don't._ " She turned her attention back on him. "What matters is that _I_ know what I'm capable of."

Barton nodded, already mentally dialing his partner's number to give her the good news. Coulson would be pleased. "Alright, kid. Why don't you show me what you can do with a bow?"


	6. Chapter 6

_February 17, 1999_

 _Samantha sat on her bed, staring angrily at the wall opposite. Her room was nice—what you would expect for a girl of her age, but there were no toys. She had nothing to do but sit—and her door was locked from the outside. She wasn't particularly bothered by it, though—her parents were out for the night, Thomas was at a friend's house, and Christian was in his room, as far as she knew. She'd locked the door from the inside, too, just to make sure he couldn't get in._

 _Her window was open despite the cold, and a breeze blew inside, ruffling her hair. Somewhere out along the road came the sound of a car engine, but the young girl paid it no mind. There were hours to go before her parents returned, it couldn't be them. The car stopped._

 _Samantha listened closely, curious. For a while, there was nothing but the rustle of leaves, the crunch of frozen grass, the whistle of the wind. After nearly ten minutes, she smelt smoke. She heard Christian yell, and a door slam, and then he was outside the house, running away._

 _The little girl ran for the door but couldn't get it open—it was locked from the outside. Her window was too far above the ground for her to jump without shattering every bone in her body. She paced frantically, trying to find something to break the lock, and smoke began to seep beneath the door. The little girl coughed, choking, and cowered in the corner._

 _"Help!" she screamed, praying someone would hear her. Soon after her cry, fire followed the smoke, and her screams grew more frantic as she threw her glass cup of water on the fire—the flames hissed, recoiling, and then sprang back up, as powerful as ever. The sound of crackling fire and cracking wood filled the room. The only other sound were those of the terrified screams of a five year old girl._

February 15, 2012

I glanced over at Agent Barton, who had been overseeing my training for the past two weeks. The instant I had decided to show him what I could do, and the instant he realized my talent with knives, he had spoken to my instructor, pulled me out of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy—much to Garrett's displeasure, I was told—, and begun to oversee my training himself.

I learned very quickly that one sparring match with my Supervising Officer was more taxing and led to more bruises than any shouting match with my brother or parents—and that every bruise was worth it to hear the praise Barton offered me at the end of the day. The first time I ever knocked Barton off his feet, his partner was watching. I thought he'd be furious—on the way to the showers, he'd caught hold of my shoulder. I'd tensed, expecting to be struck, but he'd smiled instead. "Good job today."

I'd never been happier to be so sore in my life. His parter, who had been introduced to me as Agent Natasha Romanoff, seemed far more guarded than my S.O. She did not seem to like me much at first, but that was fine—my happiness didn't revolve around other people's opinions of me. Needless to say, the first time she'd smiled at me and nodded in approval, I thought my feet might fly straight off the ground.

March 11, 2012

There were a few comments about how quickly I progressed under Agent Barton's watchful eyes, and I relished the feeling of doing something right and being praised for it. That had never really happened before. Before long, I moved to train under Agent Romanoff, whose fighting style was incredibly different than Barton's. She fought with a grace that was stunning; sometimes I wished I could sit back and watch while she twirled and moved with such fluidity that it was easy to see that she had once been a dancer. However, if I was distracted by it while in the ring, I ended up with a broken nose or rib.

In the case that this happened, I would be sent down to the labs, where a plethora of scientists and doctors were waiting to take care of the agents and cadets who were injured during sparring matches or missions. I more often than not was sent to a young woman named Kendra Song, who was an excellent nurse—though incredibly clumsy. Once, I came in with a jammed shoulder and left with a bloody nose and a sling. Not my proudest moment.

I tried not to think about this as I leaned back, narrowly avoiding a punch that would have knocked me out the rest of the day. As Romanoff spun out, I went low, ducking around her, and somehow managed to flip her over my shoulder and onto the ground. She looked stunned, and so did Barton.

No one was more surprised than I was. I offered her a hand up, which she accepted. "Sorry," I panted. "I didn't mean—"

"Are you kidding, Sam?" Barton crowed, vaulting into the ring and throwing his arm around my shoulders. "Excellent improvement."

The corner of Natasha's lips twisted into a smile, and she glanced at me—her previous fights made it clear that this was a lucky shot on my part, but she was still impressed with it nonetheless. "Samantha," she turned to me, suddenly serious, placing a deceitfully delicate hand on her hip. "You're going into the Sim tomorrow, are you ready?"

"I don't know." I redid my ponytail, pulling it tight and out of the way. "No one will tell me what to expect."

"You're going to be faced with a situation you might encounter in the field," Barton told me, bending his arm back and stretching it, then shaking it out. "Being somewhere that's being flooded, for example. If you're a good swimmer, you'll do better than someone who hasn't ever gone in the ocean. Other scenarios might include being captured and finding a way out, or escaping a maze, or surviving in freezing temperatures."

"Oh." I blinked. None of those seemed especially fun. "How long am I going to be in there?"

"Depends," Barton shrugged. "They didn't have this sort of technology when I was in training. I've heard that you're given an objective—save a civilian, find a safe house, don't drown, etc. Once you complete the objective—which, I understand, you're given beforehand—then you're finished. If you don't complete the objective…" he trailed off, leaving the consequence unsaid.

March 12, 2012

When I opened my eyes, it was dark, the kind of darkness that made your eyes ache, and I was barefoot. I remembered being given an objective—Get out. It seemed easy enough, if a bit ominous. My wrists were tied behind me, but I managed to maneuver then around and under me until I could slide then under my feet and around to my front—there was nothing to remove them, and the ropes were so tight that they cut into my wrists: there was no sliding them off.

The floor was wood, and old: splinters poked at my feet. I stood, then jumped—the ceiling was too high for me to reach—and the floor sounded hollow, like it was a part of something else. My toes and soles stung from the rough floor. I was in a building. I started to move around, arms outstretched, searching for a door or window. My fingertips grazed the wall, and splinters jabbed at my fingertips. I hissed, pulling away, and my senses, heightened by my blindness, picked up something else. Smoke.

I blanched, and goosebumps raced up my arms as my hair stood on end. I raced around the room, feet pounding against the floor, now numb to the jagged chips of wood, feeling for a door or window of any kind. When I found one, I nearly fell through it in my haste to get out of the room. I made my way carelessly, only trying to find the exit, not trying to do it stealthily or with style—I was terrified out of my mind. By now, the arid scent had grown stronger, and the darkness had begun to lift.

I could make out the dim, fading shape of a hallway, and I moved quickly, heading towards the opposite end. The wood creaked beneath my feet, and I picked up the pace as my breathing grew shallow. Lungs burned, and a stitch began to tear at my side. Stairs, splintered and weak from age—I took them three at a time, off balance from my bound hands, and hit a wall so hard that my nose started to bleed. I knew how quickly fires grew—a flashover could demolish a single room in five minutes.

 _Get out._

Smoke rose past me, trickling almost lazily up towards the ceiling, and the floor beneath me creaked ominously, buckling beneath my bare feet. I began to run, closing every door I came to that didn't lead to an exit in an attempt to slow the fire's advance. My breathing was loud in my ears, but not as loud as my heart, which was pounding in my chest, or the crackling of the fire just beneath my feet. One thing I knew—there were no windows in this house. Only doors. It was then that I started to cough.

When I reached the next stairwell, I could barely make out the stairs, the smoke was so thick. I coughed harder, trying to get the bittersweet taste out of my mouth, hyperventilating so badly that I could barely function. My eyes watered and stung, and my skin itched. I could see the fire now—it was licking up the walls like something alive, heading for the higher floors. Great spears of flame already had bit into the ceiling, clawing, chewing through wood like it was nothing. I took a running leap, praying this was the bottom floor, and thanked heaven when I found out that it was—and paying dearly for my assumption.

I went down with a choked scream, my foot burning—not from heat of fire, but from my landing. It was broken or sprained or something—and that something might get my killed. I struggled forward as the stairs behind me collapsed, hobbling on my hurt foot, trying to follow the fire's path, find out where it was being directed—I couldn't see, my eyes were burning from the smoke, it was so hot—sweat poured down my face, it and blood dripped into my mouth—there had to be a door, something—the ceiling above me creaked and groaned, and I screamed, ducking instinctively as the wood gave way.

 _Get out._

The building collapsed on top of me, and I could do nothing but make myself as small as possible, huddling, terrified, in a corner.

That was how Clint found me—curled into a shaking, sooty ball on the floor in the corner of the simulation, the fading image of a door five feet to my right.

April 2, 2012

"You have to get out of your head, Sam." Natasha shook hers, understanding and unrelenting. "You're going to run into fires on your missions, you need to be prepared for it."

"It caught me off guard." I threw the knife at the target, hitting it dead center. Natasha handed me another knife.

"So will a bomb," she retorted smartly, watching as I hurled the blade at the wall and knocked the previous knife out of its place. "You can't let this fear control you."

"Did you know that someone started the fire on purpose?" I replied conversationally, reaching for another knife.

She held it out of reach. "What?"

"It was arson." I thought for a moment, shuddering.

"Did they know you were inside?" Natasha finally handed over the knife, wiping the surprise off her face and watching me pull back, eyeing the higher target. I paused, fighting the surge of anger and loathing in my gut. It wasn't aimed at her, it was aimed at the one who'd started the fire, the bastard who had tried to kill me and had left me for dead. "Sam."

"Yes." I swallowed. "Yeah, he knew I was inside." The knife hit the center of the target. My next words tasted like poison in my mouth. "I was a _kid._ "

"I know." She shifted, then spoke off topic. "I was trained from childhood to be an assassin." I paused in my movements and looked at her, stunned. "The first time I ever killed, I was seven."

 _"Seven?"_ The word was barely a breath, but she nodded.

"Clint got me out a couple decades later."

 _Decades._

"You've been through a lot, Sam, but you can't use your experiences as a crutch. Learn to control your fear, or it will control you." She didn't know the whole truth, nor could she see into my mind or into the future. If she could, her advice might have been different. Without another word, she handed me another knife. With a deep breath, I hurled it at the wall.

April 26, 2012

"It's your first mission, Sam." Natasha leaned back against the counter and tilted her head a bit so that her long, crimson singlets fell over one shoulder. "You don't seem excited."

"Should I?" I glanced up at her and smiled weakly. I thought I might throw up. There were so many things to be afraid of that I had strongly considered staying under my bed—until I realized how cramped and small a space it was, then I was off like a shot to stand in the open courtyard until I could breathe again. "Were you? For your first mission?"

A shadow passed over her face but vanished as quickly as it had come. Too late I remembered what she said about her first kill—at seven years old—and realized that that horrible incident might have been her first mission. Clint walked in before she could answer, fully dressed in tactical gear and sporting a bow and quiver of arrows.

"You ready?" he glanced over the two of us, checking our gear.

My suit was black and fitted, and it reminded me a bit of a wetsuit. Tall, black boots hugged my calves—they had no heel, but the bottom was made of thick, grooved rubber. My suit was perfectly tailored to my person and was surprisingly comfortable—there were two jagged silver lines that curved from my armpits to my pelvis, where each one touched a hidden knife. There were various knives hidden on my person—so many that sometimes I worried that I would sneeze and impale myself on accident.

"Better hurry, _Drotik_ ," Natasha squeezed my shoulder.

I followed the two assassins into the jet and strapped myself in, wondering for the first time whether joining S.H.I.E.L.D.—while my only option at the time—was such good thing after all.

April 29, 2012

My first mission could have been worse, all things considering. We could have died, or been captured, or been tortured. None of that happened, and I was glad, but…

But my first mission was also the first time I took a life.

I hadn't meant to, not at all—I had been jumped, grabbed from behind, and Clint and Natasha hadn't heard—comms were down. He tried to pull out a gun, and I reacted without thinking—the next thing I knew, his blood was spraying me in the face. I got a mouthful of it, and the hot, metallic taste sent me into shock as a scream lodged in my throat.

I couldn't move—I just stared the man in the face as he sagged against me, clawing at me, trying to keep on his feet. His eyes were wide, full of terror, and I watched the life drain from his eyes as his blood spilled from his slit throat and soaked into my skin. It took too long for me to react, to shove him off me, to reply to my frantic S.O. and his partner, who had managed to patch up the comms in my absence.

Natasha'a voice crackled over the comms _. "Agent Ward, where are you? Are you down?"_

"I'm okay—I'm alive. I'm on the corner—"

I threw up before I could walk two feet, spilling the contents of the stomach into the street to join the other putrid things that had been abandoned there. I met them team at the extraction point and left without a word. I didn't tell them what happened, but I didn't need to. I was trailing the man's blood behind me—it followed after me in the form of droplets and footprints and nightmares. That night, as I sat with my head in my hands, I realized that his blood had dried on me, leaving me sticky and scarlet. I gagged, then sat ramrod straight, barely breathing, not wanting to feel the tackiness on my skin. Clint and Natasha glanced worriedly at me, but I didn't look over at them. I just stared straight ahead, afraid to blink, because every time I blinked, I saw the man's horrified face swim before my eyes.

May 2, 2012

We were debriefed when we landed, the day after it happened, and the next day, I was back in the ring, sparring with Natasha. I was distracted, my heart wasn't in it—every time I struck out at my S.O., I had to resist the urge to flinch. I had killed a man. I could still feel his blood on my face.

 _I killed him, I killed him, I killed him._

Natasha was holding back, so much so that eventually she stepped out and let Clint in to train with me instead, choosing to watch rather than be involved herself. Clint was pulling his punches, avoiding striking me several times when I let my guard down. I grew angrier and angrier as he did so—I wanted him to hurt me. I deserved to be hurt—

A few minutes in, I lost it. I threw punches and kicks, fighting ferociously, trying to force Clint into hurting me. He deflected them, ducking and dodging until my fist clipped his jaw. Natasha stood up sharply, ready to intervene, and I froze. My face crumpled.

"I—I'm s-sorry—Clint—" my voice cracked, and I burst into tears, falling to my knees and then to the floor, weeping. After a moment, I felt his hand on my head, and a little later, felt the floor of the ring dip a little as Natasha moved to my other side. They were silent, watching over me. It was the first time I had cried over what I had done: I'd been holding it inside me for days, and it was here, in the presence of my S.O. and his partner, that I let it go.


	7. Chapter 7

_February 17, 1999_

 _"_ _Sam! Sammie!" A young man fought his way into the house, coughing, trying to reach his little sister's room. Smoke filled the air so thickly that the walls of the hallway were barely visible. Heat had caused the wallpaper to curl and blacken, and flames snapped at the boys feet as he ran, flying up the steps, following the little girl's terrified screams._

 _This wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to be Christian—only Christian was supposed to be in the house. Sammie wasn't supposed to be here—there was a deafening crash as the ceiling caved in, and the scream's changed, rising to a nearly unbearable pitch before cutting off altogether._

 _"_ _SAM!"_

 _Grant kicked down the door and caught sight of his sister through the smoke. The little girl was lying on the floor, eyes half closed, eyelids fluttering weakly. Even unconscious, she continued to cough, choking on the smoke he had sent to poison her. The child's arm was pinned beneath a burning beam than no five year old would have been able to move. Grant managed to lift it and pull her out, and he nearly vomited when he saw the state her arm was in._

 _"_ _Sam, Sam, come on, Sammie—" he picked her up, coughing, and crawled out her open window, dragging her behind him onto the roof. The woods around the house were awash with light, and shadows danced through the trees. Grant slid along the edge, then yelled as a window exploded outward, spraying glass into his face. He turned away just in time, managing to fall onto the balcony below, then jumped from the railing towards the grass and fell, forcing himself to land on his back. He felt the air be expelled forcefully from his lungs, felt his head snap back against the ground, but he kept his arms wrapped around his little sister. He was never going to let her go again._

May 6, 2012

 _"_ _Get up!"_

My eyes burned at the sudden increase of light, and I rolled off the bed and onto the floor with a yelp, my legs hopelessly tangled in the sheets. I braced myself against the floor in pushup position, staring incredulously at my partner through my hair.

"Up!" Natasha grabbed my arm and pulled me up, tearing the sheets away from me. "You have five minutes to get dressed and get down to Hangar B."

"Wait—" I pulled my uniform out of my closet and was halfway through tugging it on before I realized that I was still wearing my pajamas.

She saw what I was doing and practically snarled at me. "Civilian clothes!" she snatched the uniform away and tossed me a pair of tights and a pajama shirt, clearly distraught. "Pack your uniform."

"Natasha, you're supposed to be on assignment—" I grabbed a pair of jeans and pulled them on, snatching a white shift from my splintering dresser. I hopped around on one foot, trying to tug on a combat boot over my sock before I realized that it was on the wrong foot. At that point, I tripped over a stool and fell hard into a mirror, which thankfully did not shatter. "What's going on?"

My S.O.'s partner was on assignment in Russia—I knew this from accidentally overhearing she and Clint speak—she had left only four days before and was supposed to be gone for several weeks at least. But here she was—and more frantic than I had ever seen her.

"Clint's been compromised." Her voice broke on the last word, and the knife I was holding fell to the floor with a sharp clang.

I finished changing as Natasha tore through my apartment, grabbing every knife she could find and depositing them on the table. "Put these in your bag." She dropped a duffel bag beside the impressive pile of knives, stuffing my uniform inside the pack for me. "And get moving."

"These aren't all mine," I called after her, shoving the sheathed blades into the bag carelessly.

"Clint and I added a couple to your stock while you were on assignment," she called angrily.

My first and only assignment I'd taken by myself had taken two days—I'd gotten back the night before. I had assassinated someone. A pedophile and rapist who had been targeting the children of members of the US Embassy. It was easier than my last kill, and that terrified me. Later, I couldn't help but wonder why I'd been sent on assignment by myself only three days after I had killed for the first time. I didn't say anything, though. I didn't think it was important at the time.

Several hours later, we landed on what I learned was called a helicarrier—something I had never even heard of, much less imagined. It was in the middle of the ocean, which I was fine with—I'd always had less of an aversion to the water than to fire—I didn't fear drowning nearly as much as I did burning alive.

Natasha's faced smoothed over into an expression of serenity the instant she stepped foot on the tarmac, and I nearly had to jog to keep up with her, my duffel bag hitting me in the back with every hurried step. A cool, salty breeze did wonders to cool down the air—it was especially hot on the concrete, since the sun had decided to come out full force. Natasha made her way towards a tall man in a leather jacket who was standing with his back to us. Facing me was a tall man with a suit and a kind face. When he caught sight of Natasha and I, he smiled, puffing up his chest proudly.

The man beside him turned to face us, and heat rushed into my cheeks. He was undeniably good looking, with blue eyes and blond hair cut in a 1940s style. "Agent Romanoff. Captain Rogers."

"Ma'am," the solder smiled, and I glanced away.

"Hi." She turned to the man. "Coulson, Captain—Barton's charge, Agent Ward."

The captain nodded at me and took my hand in greeting, shaking it quickly before releasing it. I smiled shyly, tucking my tingling hand into the pocket of my jeans. "A pleasure, Sir."

Coulson acquired my attention quickly. "Ah, Ms. Ward—we never had the chance to formally meet. Phil Coulson. I'm the one who asked that you be assigned to S.H.I.E.L.D." He grasped my hand firmly. "I've heard great things about you."

Natasha glanced at him. "They need you on the bridge. Face time. Take Sam with you."

"See you there."

I followed him, knowing better than to argue with Natasha, especially with what she was going through.

"Isn't this great?" he glanced over his shoulder for a last second look at the Captain before the doors slid shut, blocking him from view. He looked like a child on Christmas day, positively giddy.

"Sir?" I glanced back, confused as to why the high ranking agent was apparently so starstruck over a solder who, although undeniably handsome, did not seem overly special.

"That's Captain America," he grasped his hands together before him as he walked, beaming.

"Really?" My hand tingled, and I felt a blush on my cheeks. _Captain America just shook my hand._ I had idolized him as a child—I had been abused, how could I not look up to the super soldier who'd saved so many lives and had been a living embodiment of the word "good"? I had never seen a picture of his real face, though—only him in uniform. It was no surprise that I hadn't recognized him. He was even more handsome without the mask.

"Yeah. I have his trading cards, you know—vintage. A little boxing around the edges, but otherwise they're in mint condition," he bragged, giddy.

"I used to have a few of his cards myself," I told him, smiling. "But… they got lost." _Burned in a fire along with the rest of the house._

"Shame," Coulson frowned, the idea of the cards going to waste was obviously a horrifying thought. "But now you've met him."

"Now I have," I agreed. "Sir, if I may ask—what is going on? Where's Cli—my S.O.?"

Coulson's face darkened, and he let his hands fall to his sides. "Agent Barton has been compromised. We're hunting down the man responsible."

"You need an entire helicarrier to do that, Sir?" I asked, sceptical. I had no idea that he was worth so much. There had to be something else, some other reason.

"Not exactly. The man took something else, something incredibly valuable and dangerous. We find it, we find your S.O."

"And what is my S.O. to you, Agent Coulson?" I asked. He stopped abruptly and faced me so that we stood a couple feet apart on opposite sides of the hall. For the first time, I saw how exhausted he was.

"I'm his handler," he informed me. "His and Agent Romanoff's. Yours as well, by default. The three of you are under my protection. We're getting him back."

We entered a large room, one that opened to the sky, the entire front made of glass. People on computers lined the sides of the room, and walkways were positioned above them along the walls for more mobility. In the dead center was a commanding man in a black trench coat and an eyepatch—thin scars threaded across his cheekbone and forehead, giving him an intimidating sense of control.

"Director Fury, this is Agent Ward. Agent Barton is her Supervising Officer, and Agent Romanoff thought it would be best if she were brought in, since she might be in danger."

 _Danger?_ The bag of knives on my shoulders felt far heavier than it had several seconds ago. Did whoever had Clint want something from me as well?

"Ah, yes." The man motioned for Coulson to move closer. "She's the one…" his voice grew too low for me to hear, and I busied myself with examining the deck instead. The ground suddenly lurched, and I fell against the railing, looking around wildly. Had we been attacked? Bombed? Were we sinking?

A woman with dark hair and a stern but beautiful face stepped up to me. "Agent Ward, is that correct?" she inquired.

I nodded, straightening, wondering why no one else seemed at all upset by the fact that the ship seemed to be malfunctioning. "Yes, ma'am."

"Any relation to Grant Ward?" she asked curiously.

My pulse jumped, but I shook my head. "No, ma'am."

"Shame. He's a fine agent." She turned to face the front window. "No need to be nervous," she added as the entire helicarrier lifted out of the water and began to vanish from sight, shooting upwards into the sky.

I received orders to find my bunk and change into my uniform, so I obeyed—but not before bumping into a middle-aged man with a kind face and a purple shirt.

"I'm so sorry, Sir," I placed a hand on his arm to help steady him, horrified, and he gave me a small smile.

"It's alright, Miss. No harm done." My action seemed to have placed the other agents on edge, because it wasn't until the man had passed into the next room that any of them started breathing again. I continued on, puzzled by their behavior, and didn't stop again until I reached my assigned space. There were three beds, all made, and the only items in the room belonged to me. I pulled on the uniform, shoving my folded civilian clothes under my bed in a box I'd been given. There was a mirror, and I caught sight of myself in it as I slid the tight suit on over my skin. I couldn't help but stop, staring at my ruined left arm. A familiar surge of rage filled my gut, and I swallowed against the bitter taste that burned my mouth.

"You always hide it."

I spun around, jerking the sleeve up to cover my shoulder and zipping up the back of the suit. Natasha was standing in the doorway. She shrugged her bag and jacket onto one of the two remaining beds.

"Your scar. As agents, it's normal to get hurt. We wear are scars as trophies, marks of achievement."

"These aren't battle scars, Natasha." I stared at her reflection in the mirror, sighing. They weren't heroic or some intense show of bravery and strength they were a symbol of a weak, frightened little girl who lost everything. It wasn't someone I wanted to be.

"I found your file, Sam."

I froze. The knife in my hand fell to the floor with a clatter, smashing any chance of deceiving her. How had she found my file? Johnny—or someone else—had deleted it. It was the only way to keep me safe from my family.

"C'mere." She sat down on the edge of the bed and motioned for me to join her. I did, slowly, unsure of what to do. I had lied about my past—to her, to Clint. What was she going to say? What would Clint say?

"How?" I asked, my voice a hushed whisper.

"I'm good with computers," she said simply. "Part of my training."

I stared at my hands, carefully pulling a fingerless glove over my left hand. The burn scars twisted and stretched up from my knuckles to my shoulder but thankfully had left my fingers untouched. It was easier to hide that way. "What are you going to do?"

"Your past is your business," she stated after a few seconds. "However, I do have a question, if you are willing to hear me out." I nodded but said nothing. "You had your past erased. You have a family—parents, brothers: three of them. I looked up your name, and a news article caught my eye. A funeral for a Samantha Grace Ward, born in July twenty-ninth, nineteen ninety-three. Why would you let them think that you're dead?"

It was a few minutes before I spoke again. "My parents abused me," I told her softly. "When I was little, it was my mother and brother, Christian. Thomas was never around, and Grant… he protected me when I was little, before he tried to kill me. After he left, it got worse. When I got older, it wasn't my mother who abused me, it—" It suddenly felt impossible to breathe. "It was—"

Natasha placed a hand on my back and squeezed my shoulder gently. "It's okay," she murmured.

"I had a friend," I continued, swiping at my eyes. "His name was Jonathan. He—his father was the police chief in our town—he and his family took care of me. I was at their house almost every day when I was little—either Johnny would take me home with him, or his father would drive me from the police department. His mother always took care of me; she was a nurse." I took a shaky breath as tears burned my eyes. "They… they wanted to adopt me."

Natasha stiffened. "They wanted to adopt you. But they didn't?"

"My parents found out and—" I coughed, choking and sobbing, and buried my face in the pillow that S.H.I.E.L.D. had provided. My next words were muffled in the fabric, but Natasha got the gist of what I was trying to say. She rubbed my back like Johnny's mother used to when she comforted me after I got hurt. She would sit me down on the barstool and get me some water in the blue glass cup I always loved. She would talk to me, keeping her voice soft, and would rub my back until I stopped crying and hiccuping.

"As s-soon as my p-parents found out," I lifted my head from the pillow and stared straight ahead, breathing heavily, "they started doing things d-differently. They wouldn't let C-Christian hurt m-me, b-but t-they would lock me in the basement instead of b-beating me—the t-torture became psychological more th-than p-physical—"

"Sam—"

"They didn't want the neighbors to see the scars, you know?" I pulled off my glove and hurled it across the room, revealing the scarred back of my hand. I was hiccuping, shaking, and hating myself for it. "T-this and the s-scars on my f-face are the o-only p-physical scars that I h-have—they m-made sure that n-no one else c-could see t-them."

"Sam." Natasha took hold of my hands. "Did you ever tell anyone about this?"

"No." I shook my head, tried to take a deep breath, and ended up holding it instead as an attempt to hold back more tears. "I c-couldn't. They s-said they'd k-kill me if I d-did. And e-every time I w-went to s-see J-Johnny's f-family they'd hurt m-me, say it was my f-fault for disobeying th-them—"

"Sam, look at me." She squeezed my hands firmly, not stopping until I obeyed. "None of that was your fault, do you understand me? None of it was your fault." I nodded and then burst into tears, curling my fingers into my hair and holding on, afraid I might fall apart. Natasha held me, rubbing my arm as I cried, my head in her lap. I could almost feel her mind whirring—probably ordering a psych evaluation for me, as well as a background check.

"It was a mistake to send you into the field so early," she said softly. "One of the higher level agents ordered it, said you were behind. Clint argued, but couldn't disobey a direct order, and I was leaving. I should have stopped it; if I had known it was an assassination, I never would have let you go." The real reason—that I had gone off the deep end and practically lost my mind—went unsaid. I explained myself, trying to reassure her that my most recent mission hadn't actually hurt me—if anything, it had _helped_ me.

"The man they had me kill," I breathed. The information was secret, not to be shared, but this was Natasha. Clint's parter. One of the only people who understood what it felt like to be tortured and controlled and hurt as a child and to have to grow up thinking it was your fault. I trusted her—and she needed to know what I'd done, and why I'd been able to do it so easily. "He was a murderer and a rapist. He hurt little kids." I looked up at her. "I was one of those kids, once. I owed it to them—to myself—to make sure that he never hurt anyone again."


	8. Chapter 8

_February 20, 1999_

 _The litter girl opened her eyes for the first time in three days, and the first face she saw belonged to Officer Gavin, who was asleep in the chair beside her hospitall bed. He'd been there for almost three days; he'd been the one to ride with her in the ambulance and to fill out her medical forms. Her parents had left for a last minute business trip while the house was burning down. No one knew where Christian was. Grant was in custody._

 _"_ _Mr. Gavin?"_

 _The man jerked awake, then breathed out in obvious relief when he saw that the girl's big brown eyes had finally opened._

 _"_ _Samantha," he whispered, brushing her unruly hair back behind her ears. "How are you feeling?"_

 _"_ _My arm hurts," she whimpered. He glanced down at it. The limb was wrapped in gauze that was changed every few hours to keep the pus and blood from gluing the fabric to the wound. The doctors weren't sure if she'd ever regain full use of her arm; it was too early to tell. At the moment, the little girl was shaking as though with a high fever—indeed, heat was radiating from her skin, baking Gavin's hand. "I'm cold."_

 _Gavin spread another blanket over the girl's legs, and his heart broke for her. She didn't deserve this. No little girl deserved this. He grunted as he moved to stand up, shifting his weight off his bad knee. "I'll let the doctors know."_

 _"_ _What happened?" she asked, and Gavin froze. He didn't want to answer. He slowly lowered himself back into his chair, taking a deep breath. With any other child, it would be their father or mother sitting in this chair, comforting their child, telling them everything would be okay. Samantha's parents had seemed mildly inconvenienced. Said they were sorry, but they couldn't come back immediately. He hadn't told them the house had burned down, only that their daughter had been hurt. That hadn't seemed to worry them; they seemed calm, sure that the doctors could handle the situation. In truth, he'd withheld the information about the house because he knew that it might make them return home faster. He needed probably cause to get Samantha out of that household. Lord willing, he would have it soon enough._

 _"_ _Your house burned down," he said, taking her uninjured hand. "You got hurt, but you're going to be fine."_

 _"_ _My house burned down? Why?" she seemed confused, but not sad—he guessed that the house held no happy memories for her. She seemed almost glad to be rid of it. He'd never seen so young a child have to bear such a heavy burden._

 _"_ _Someone set the fire," he said slowly, debating whether or not to tell her that it was her brother who had done so. He still didn't think that Grant Ward was the one who had hurt Mrs. Ward so long ago—he believed that the boy had been framed. A few other officers, most of whom had seen Samantha come into the station battered or bruised or crying, agreed with him._

 _"_ _Why?" The word was so quiet, so innocent. In that moment, Gavin caught the scent of smoke, which hadn't yet been washed off. The smell brought with it memories of the burning building, of intense heat, and of the sight of Samantha lying, unconscious and bloody, on the chest of her older brother._

 _He swallowed. "I don't know."_

 _"_ _Where's my family?" The little girl looked around, and for the first time, she looked afraid. Her expression was enough to convince Gavin to do everything in his power to get her out of that house._

 _"_ _They're not here right now."_

 _She frowned, her chapped bottom lip poking out. "Where's Grant?"_

May 6, 2012

"Agent Ward!" Coulson nodded at me as I entered the room, gesturing for me to join him at a large glass table. Several seats were filled—I recognized Captain America and Natasha, as well as the tired man I'd accidentally run into earlier. "We have a hit."

The brunette agent from before, who I'd learned was called Commander Hill, glanced around and met my eyes quickly before turning back to her notes with a huff. She evidently was expecting my brother, not me—and from her body language, it was clear that she wished that my brother were here instead.

"You found my S.O.?" I stepped forward, ready to go. I had cleaned up well; no one who hadn't seen me crying would have guessed how messed up I was inside.

"Yes and no," Coulson stepped up, still clutching a file. "The man who took him is called Loki. He's just popped up on the radar. Where he is, we guess your S.O. will be also."

Agent Hill glanced around at me. "Do you have any skill with computers?"

I felt color warm my cheeks, and I cleared my throat as several pairs of eyes swiveled round to stare at me. "A bit."

"You erased your identity, didn't you?" Commander Hill was only half paying attention, but a man with a marvelous bald head and large glasses was watching me closely.

"Yes and no," I corrected her, shrugging a bit. "There were others involved, though I designed the framework of the program and worked out the kinks in the finished product." I frowned. "How did you—?"

"You erased your previous identity?" The quiet man with the dark hair spoke up, and several of his colleagues shifted uncomfortably when he spoke. "How?"

I turned my attention to him, happy to try and explain the technical details to someone who seemed to want to understand. "Well, obviously I couldn't completely erase all traces of who I was before I joined S.H.I.E.L.D.—I can't erase memories, and though money is persuasive enough to cause people to forget something for a little while, it also is a wonderful tool for causing people to remember—unless of course they wish to forget in the first place."

"Naturally," he nodded.

I continued, resting one hand on the cool glass tabletop. Captain America spoke quietly to Natasha, ignoring my explanation. "Of course, there is a way to cause people to forget about you—or, rather, not notice you at all—and oddly enough, it isn't being quiet or trying to blend into the crowd, because often the most observant people will notice the ones who are silent. To them, the people whom they assume to be shadows—and therefore are noticed—are actually the ones who stand out the most. The best way to make people forget is to fall somewhere in the middle—to be neither popular nor a wallflower. Someone who's friendly but not overly social, known but not always noticed."

"Smart," he rubbed his jaw, watching me with interest. "You were neither an outcast nor a socialite."

I nodded in affirmation. "Correct. That was the hard part—not going to too many parties, not being involved in too many clubs—but being involved and present enough that I could find a good job after college. I guess that doesn't matter now," I added under my breath.

The man raised an eyebrow, and his head fell slightly to one side. "You're a college student?" he asked, sounding surprised. "You look older."  
"I was. When it came down to erasing my identity, I discovered a bit of a bump—social media. I never had Twitter or Instagram or Facebook—I knew from the time I was a child that I'd have to disappear at some point. The problem with social media, even for someone without it, is that everyone is always taking pictures, and there's every chance you'll get caught in the background." I shrugged. "Accessing and deleting files on yourself is the easy part—it isn't actually isn't that difficult unless you're squeamish about national security and getting caught by the FBI."

A new voice joined into the conversation, having broken off his own. "And you're not?" This time it was Captain America who spoke up, and the incredulous look he gave me made me feel guilty, like a child who'd been caught with one hand in the cookie jar.

"It was a matter of survival, Sir," I told him softly.

"You joined S.H.I.E.L.D. out of a desire to survive?" The man in the purple button-down asked.

"I was coerced," I muttered, glancing around. _"Ahem—"_

"As interesting as this is," Director Fury stepped up beside me, giving me a pointed look, "And believe me, I will be following up with you on this matter of _national security,_ Agent Ward—" I gave him a sheepish grin, which he did not return, "—we have more pressing matters to attend to. Agent Romanoff, take your parter's cadet—"

"She _is_ an Agent, Sir," Natasha interrupted, shrugging. "She took out a high risk target yesterday and was back in time for dinner."

"Fine," Director Fury growled. "Romanoff, take _Agent_ Ward with you in a Quinjet to Germany. I'll send the exact coordinates over once you're in the air. Dr. Banner, if you would return to the lab to continue tracking the cube—and Captain Rogers, if you would suit up."

"C'mon, Sam." Natasha's face was set, determined—she was out for blood. "Let's find Clint."

~8~8~

May 7, 2012

"It's been a long day."

"And it's about to get longer." Natasha flipped several switches with more force than was strictly necessary. "Fury wants me to send you in alone—he thinks that seeing you might trigger something in Clint, get him to come back to our side."

"Okay," I nodded, checking my various pockets to make sure all my knives were in place. "Alright, yeah."

"Samantha." I looked up, surprised by her use of my full name. She stared straight out the front windshield and shook her head. "This isn't some thug, or some murderer. This is Clint."

"I know." Did she think I didn't understand?

"No, you don't." She ground her teeth in frustration—I could hear them from where I sat. "Clint doesn't go easy on you when you train, and I applaud you for managing to hold your own against him—and against me. I know you've been training and taking classes since you were old enough to know what self defense was, and that's helped you—but Clint, for the most part, has taught you everything you know. This isn't some thug who picked up his fighting technique on the street somewhere. Clint Barton is an _assassin_. He loves you dearly, you're like a daughter to him—" She might as well have slapped me—I didn't hear the next couple sentences worth of information that she said, only zoning in once my ears stopped buzzing, "—Sam. He will not hesitate, he will not back down, he will not give you a hand up. Do you understand me?"

"So, what—" my mouth had gone dry, and my voice had risen to an unusually high pitch. "You want me to kill him? I can't do that, Natasha, you know I can't—"

"Even if I thought you _could_ physically overcome him, I know you couldn't stomach it." She took a deep breath. "There was a man who worked with me when I was a child. The people who trained me, they hurt him. Brainwashed him. Once, he broke free. It was during a sparring match when I was a kid—I managed to trip him up, and he slammed his head against a metal pipe. It might have killed or serious concussed any normal person—but not him. He looked at me, eyes clearer than I'd ever seen, and rushed off immediately."

"Where'd he go?" I didn't understand how this story related to our current situation.

She shook her head, letting out a long breath. "I don't know. I heard rumors that he freed another prisoner—a young woman—and that he was later recaptured and put back under their control after he helped her escape. The Soldier was never the same again, and I never heard anything else about the girl."

I hoped the girl was alright, wherever she was—and I felt sad that the Soldier, whomever he was, hadn't managed to escape alongside her. "What does this have to do with Clint?"

"If he's been brainwashed the way the Soldier was," she explained urgently, "then cognitive recalibration might be enough to wake him up."

"Cognitive… you want me to get close enough to knock him out?" I asked incredulously. I could hit almost any target—but I wasn't the strongest at hand to hand combat, not against my S.O. Against other young female agents I had the advantage of height—I was a couple inches taller than most of them—and experience, as I'd been fighting one battle or another most of my life. Older agents of both genders were unpredictable. Even the rusty ones were dangerous; the well-oiled were lethal. I had the advantage of having been trained by two of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s deadliest assassins, which didn't help when one of them was my opponent.

"Yes."

"And if I can't?"

She pursed her lips, glaring furiously out the window at the sea of lights surging towards us. "Then you die."

~8~8~

 _"_ _Do you have him in your sights?"_

I breathed out slowly. "Yes," I breathed.

 _"_ _Do you have a clear shot? Agent Ward?"_

I didn't say another word—I couldn't. I was far too close. One wrong move, and I was dead.

Clint was looking right at me.

"Clint," I spoke to him, ignoring the frantic discussion buzzing in my ear. "Clint, listen to me." His knuckles whitened against his bow. A shaft of light fell across his face, and his eyes glowed blue with such startling intensity that I almost took a step back. "Clint," I whispered, "What happened to you?"

He drew back his bow, an arrow on the string. "Move."

"Don't do this."

An instant before he let go, I dove forward. The shaft of the arrow cut through my hair, but didn't hurt me—and the next moment, we were locked in hand to hand combat that made it impossible for him to use his bow against me.

Cognitive recalibration. Hit him in the head. We danced around each other, and I realized for the first time that Clint had been holding back when we sparred. Had he wished, he could have killed me a hundred times over. Now, it was reflexes and a desire for retribution that kept me alive. Too my surprise, I managed to land several blows with my limbs and knives. The only problem was that I was aiming to subdue—he was fighting to kill. I managed to catch him across the cheek, the forearm, the chest—but the kevlar he wore deflected the blade as effectively as Captain America's shield deflected a bullet. He fought furiously and with all the knowledge of the assassin I now knew him to be. His every move was thought about, calculated, planned and executed exactly. The one thing that seemed to throw him off was the randomness of my own movements—something he had chastised me for before but something which now seemed to be saving my life. One disadvantage for me was his bow—it provided a reach that my knives did not allow me.

After the third time being struck by his bow—back, knee, face—I managed to grab hold of it, trying to wrest it from his grip. He was stronger than I was—he managed to trust around, wrenching my arm behind my back—he jerked, and a sickening _pop_ reverberated through my body and into my head as pain exploded in my shoulder. A foot in the center of my back sent me to the ground, and I fell, unable to catch myself. I rolled over, clutching my useless arm, unable to move my fingers. He had an arrow on the string once more, its head aimed straight at my chest.

"C-Clint—" Natasha's words played in my mind. _"He loves you dearly, you're like a daughter to him."_ I had never had a real father. Gavin had tried to protect me, but there was only so much he could do. Clint had protected me, trained me, pulled me out of a horrible situation and helped me to hone my abilities, make me into something strong. "Clint, please. Please." Blood tickled my upper lip, dripping from a cut that he had delivered just below my right eye. "This isn't you, Clint. You're—you're a good man." A thought crossed my mind—that just because someone was a good person didn't mean they hadn't done unspeakable things—but I dismissed it immediately. "This isn't you. I know you."

He lowered his bow, moving closer to me. He hadn't said a single word since ordering me to move.

"I know you," I whispered. I swallowed thickly. An odd sensation in my chest had me gasping for breath—it was as if there were a void in my chest cavity, a strange, empty feeling that left me winded. It was gone a moment later. Clint stepped forward until he was a foot from me. I held my breath, lying flat on my back, waiting for the final blow to come.

"I promised Natasha I would bring you home," I whispered. I wasn't sure why I was telling him this—I didn't know if I was trying to reach him or distract him or manipulate him, but I needed to do something. I'd had my ass handed to me—and if I didn't die, I'd be the laughing stock of every agent I came in contact with. If I did die, I wanted to at least start paving the way for the others to get Clint back. "I promised. You have to come back. Please." I swallowed again, but my mouth and throat still felt thick. "I care about you too."

Before I could react, he lifted his booted foot and brought it down on my face. My nose broke, and blood poured from both nostrils. I screamed, and blood sprayed from my face, painting the ground. Something hard struck the back of my head, and my forehead cracked against the bloodied stone, sending me into unconscious.


	9. Chapter 9

_March 21, 2001_

 _"_ _Don't you remember?" Mrs. Ward gripped the young girl's chin, staring straight into her eyes. "Grant set the fire. Do you remember when you ran to the police? When you got him sent away. He blames_ you _." She glanced between the girl and the door._

 _The shaking started._

 _There was no way out. The basement had one door and no windows, and there was no way to get around the woman to the stairs. Even if she had been alone, there was no way for Samantha to get out: it was better down here. Up there, she had all three family members to contend with, and the promise that something horrible would happen if she tried to get to Officer Gavin's house. Down here, however… it was repeated like a mantra. Grant wanted her dead._

 _Did he? Hadn't he set the fire?_

 _"_ _Grant always protected me from you," Sam whispered, staring back into the woman's eyes. Grant had always protected her, hadn't he? He hadn't let the others hurt her. But they_ had _hurt her, hadn't they? All of them. Grant hadn't been able to stop it—or maybe he didn't want to stop it. Maybe he hadn't done anything because he hadn't wanted it to stop, not for her. Had he lied to her? Did he hate her? Had he set the fire to try and kill her?_

 _The woman saw the doubt in the girl's eyes and felt the glow of triumph. "He tried to kill you." She turned and crossed the room, leaving the girl on the floor. Heels tapped softly against the stairs as her silhouette filled the doorway, darkening the room. A moment later, the door shut and the lock clicked, and the room and Sam's heart were plunged into darkness._

May 7, 2012

"You did good."

"He could've killed me."

"Even if he hadn't been under Loki's influence, he still would have been stronger than you. The scepter's power makes him stronger. There was no way you could have won."

I looked up at the young woman before me and arched my only visible eyebrow, pressing an icepack over most of the rest of my throbbing face. My nose had been set—done while I was unconscious, though I hadn't remained unconscious for very long afterwards—and butterfly bandages held shut the cut below my eye. My shoulder ached, and my injured arm was held in a sling close to my chest. To top it all off, I had a concussion. I was in bad shape. "So why'd you send me in there?" I ran my tongue over one of my teeth, which now felt rather loose. "Bait?"

"I didn't give the order."

"But that's why I was sent in there. A distraction?" I tasted blood in my mouth and spat into the sink. "What?"

Natasha's brows twitched together briefly, then she glanced up and away from me. "Fury knows Clint cares about you. He wanted to see if he'd let you close enough…"

"He should have sent you in, then," I griped, closing my eyes as my head gave a particularly painful throb.

I didn't receive an answer.

"You said there was no way I could have won," I mused, glancing up at her. "Losing a fight with an enemy means execution. So why am I alive?"

Natasha shrugged. "Maybe Fury knew what he was doing." She paused. "Loki is in custody."

"He is?" I sat up straighter. "Why? Why haven't we gotten rid of him yet?"

"Because we don't have the tesseract." Her gaze grew shadowed. "I think Doctor Banner was hoping you could help him locate it."

At that moment I took a deep, gulping breath as though emerging from a pool after being held under for longer than I could bear. I took several such breaths, keeping a hand pressed to my aching chest. A moment later, nothing was wrong: my breathing was steady, and there was no pain in my chest.

Natasha was staring at me, confused and concerned.

"I'm fine."

"Clearly." She sauntered towards the door. "When this is all over, you're seeing a doctor."

I was too stunned to respond. I didn't change position for almost a minute, worried that the slightest movement might knock the breath from my lungs, but nothing happened.

"Agent Ward." Doctor Banner was standing in the doorway, dark eyes alight with curiosity as he observed my hunched, rather battered form. "Agent Romanoff said I might find you here."

"Here I am." I stepped up and stood in front of him, blocked from leaving. His eyes scanned my face, taking in the abrasions and bruises that marked my skin.

"I'm sorry about what happened to you."

"I've been dealt worse," I shrugged, giving him a half-hearted grin. His head tipped like a child's, working out the deeper meaning behind what I'd said. To his credit, he didn't ask me to explain myself further, though he undoubtable was working out the meaning behind my words. "Shall we go?"

He nodded absently, lost in thought, and turned to head down the hall. "Yeah, sure."

Tony Stark was already waiting in the lab, and he cringed when he saw me. "You've looked better," he observed, glancing back down at the screen. He rummaged around in a blue baggie and popped a few blueberries into his mouth.

"So have you." I took in his bloodshot eyes and the bags hanging beneath them.

"Yeah, well, we can't all take naps," he shot back, swiping some information irritably off the screen. The same information appeared on another glass panel handing nearby, and it immediately began sorting itself into several different categories. In the corner of the same screen, I spotted a paused game of Galaga.

"She was unconscious, Tony." Doctor Banner handed me a small glass tablet the size of an iPad and moved to the other side of the room to a messy table seemingly reserved just for him. He looked at home there, as though that little corner of space was his happy place.

"Agent, you found a way to make yourself disappear," Stark immediately shifted gears as though hoping to steer away from a dangerous topic. "I assume you could make yourself reappear as well." When I didn't respond, he glanced around at Doctor Banner and I. "Oh, come on, it's like a magic trick where you make something disappear—no one's impressed till you bring it back."

"Well it's not meant to impress, but I could bring myself back if I wanted," I admitted, leaning against the wall and tapping a few commands into the tablet. It was difficult to maneuver with one arm in a sling—I ended up holding the tablet with my good hand and typing away with the other one.

"So if I asked you to find someone, you could do it?" he pressed.

"If I had the resources I needed," I replied testily, glancing up from my work. I was sure that, with one eye swollen shut, I made _quite_ the menacing sight. Stark's expression was more pitying that anything else. I glanced back at my work, checking my status: according to Shield's database, I existed as of a year ago. Before that, there were no existing records. I typed in a new command.

"Great. Here are your resources," Stark gestured around the lab. "Find the Tesseract. Go."

"What's the Tesseract?" I glanced around the room for helpful or revealing information. The only thing out of place besides myself was a large golden scepter topped with a glowing blue stone.

"You're kidding." Stark turned to stare incredulously at Doctor Banner. "You invited her down here and she doesn't even _know—_ "

"The Tesseract is a highly powerful and unstable cube that is able to harness energy to create doorways from one end of space to another," Banner called from his end of the room without even looking up from his notes. "In doing so, it releases variant forms of energy and radiation."

"Including Gamma?" I asked, tapping away at the tablet.

"Yeah. Mostly Gamma."

"Have you tried creating an algorithm based on cluster recognition to try and rule out the places where you know the Tesseract couldn't be?" I glanced up to find Stark staring at me incredulously.

A smirk danced across Banner's lips, and he nodded. "Already up and running."

"Alright…" I sandwiched the tablet between my hurt arm and my chest and pulled up a stool with my good arm. I sat down, plucked the tablet from it's place, returned it to my hurt hand, and hunched over it as best I could. I reached for the bag of blueberries but didn't reach it before Stark snatched the bag away. I shot him a look before speaking again, watching his expression as I spoke. "I've found the list of agents who've gone rogue—send me your algorithm so I can create an asynchronous location positioning algorithm that will cross reference the presence of Gamma radiation with the facial recognition of any of the missing agents."

I rubbed my head, which ached against the onslaught of long words, and then looked up. I was welcomed by the sight of Tony Stark staring at me, slack-jawed. Bruce nodded thoughtfully. A moment later, his algorithm appeared on my screen. Tony set the bag of blueberries down beside me. "Welcome to the team, Agent."

Several hours later, the sun was rising. I stared straight ahead, my knees tucked against my chest. I stared to a little of the left of the rising sun, letting the light warm my face even as my head began to throb. Sometime in the past few hours, I had had to revert to speaking rather than typing, letting Stark or Doctor Banner input the algorithm for me. Apparently, a concussed person isn't supposed to deal with screens or electronics—or light—for several months after they are diagnosed. The sentence is extended for those who have experienced multiple concussions, which made me very glad that my records had been hidden. I had kept a copy of my medical records, just in case, but had deleted everything else.

"So, Agent." Stark tossed the now-empty bag of blueberries into the trashcan and passed me a strain of Advil that he said he would use after his rougher battles. I swallowed two of the pills dry and waited for them to kick in. "What's your story?"

I blinked blearily and turned on my swivel stool to look at him. "My story?"

"Yeah, your story." He tapped the disk that glowed through his shirt. "This is my ticket in here; my story. How'd you end up a part of this freak show?"

"Shield thought I was somebody else," I shrugged as though it happened regularly. "Kidnapped me from school. They debriefed me, trained me. Agent Barton saw my potential where others didn't. He became my S.O. I'm here for him," I finished.

"Yeah, I got that," Stark shook his head and sat down heavily on a stool, letting out a pained grunt as he did so. "I got that from reading your file. Maybe I should be more specific." He pointed at my arm. "How did _you_ get _that?_ "

I looked down to see that my sleeve had been pushed up sometime over the last few hours to reveal the deep burn scars that disfigured my arm. Without a word, I pulled the edge of my sleeve back down to cover it up. By now, Stark's questions had also drawn Doctor Banner's attention. "Doesn't matter."

"The fact that you covered it up means that it does," Stark shot back. "So how'd it happen? Mission gone bad? Training exercise? Y'know, I always thought that Shield training was more like hazing than anything else," he added to Doctor Banner. "Speaking of hazing—"

"It's not a recent wound," Doctor Banner observed, cutting Stark off. He eyed my arm curiously from across the room. "I'd say it's at least ten, maybe fifteen, years old. It's a burn scar, but it looks like it's centralized to the one arm—at least, I can't see any scarring on your neck or face. What happened? Car accident? You don't look like you could be more than twenty years old, so it must have been something that happened when you were a child."

"How old _are_ you?" Stark asked, blinking in wonder. "You created this algorithm but there's no way you could be more than twenty."

I shifted uncomfortably under his sharp gaze and tugged a caught strand of hair free of one of the butterfly bandages on my face. "I'm not."

"You're under twenty?" Banner nodded, impressed. "It's no wonder Shield asked you to join them, then. But why aren't you a part of Communications or Science and Technology? Why Operations? It seems like your talents are being wasted there."

It was clear that the Doctor wasn't trying to be insulting; he was genuinely curious as to how I ended up where I was. "Everyone's got hidden talents," I said slowly, turning the glass tablet over and over in my hands like I would a knife. "Computers are one of mine."

"You don't want Shield to know about it?" Stark asked, hurriedly typing something onto one of the screens.

"That's right."

"Your wish is my command—on one condition." His finger hovered over the screen. "I'll delete the AV footage from this room from the last four hours. Nothing about you or your talent or anything else will remain."

"What's your condition?" I asked, intrigued.

"You tell me how you got that scar."

I let out a frustrated breath and ran my good hand through my hair. "So long as you erase my answer, too."

"Done."

"My parents locked me in my room when I was five years old. While they were out, my brother escaped from prison and set the house on fire. The ceiling collapsed on top of me, pinned me down."

"How—" Doctor Banner cleared his throat and shook his head. "How did you get out?"

I shrugged my one working shoulder, my mouth tipping to one side. "I don't know. I woke up in the hospital the next day and was told that my parents weren't going to cut their business trip short just because of an inconvenience."

"They sound pleasant," Stark grumbled, scowling. "Tell me they lost custody of you after that."

"No. I think they were afraid of what I might tell people if I ever got out—people believe kids a lot more than they believe teenagers, you know?" I tugged on a loose strand of hair. "I didn't escape until last year. By then, it was too late." I gave him a crooked smile. "No one likes teenagers who cry wolf."

"So you joined Shield, why? So you wouldn't have to face that again?" Banner asked. His voice was filled with concern and understanding, and I found myself nodding.

"Yeah, I guess. Yes. But also…" I swallowed. "There're other kids out there like me that no one's helping. If what I'm doing and what I've gone through will one day help them, then it'll have been worth it."

At that moment, Director Fury entered the room. I stood immediately, but swayed and almost toppled over. Doctor Banner caught my arm and forcefully placed me back on my stool. The room was spinning. "At ease, Agent," he glanced at me, then at Stark who brought his thumb down on the screen to erase the AV, and his countenance turned thunderous. "What are you doing, Mr. Stark?"

"Uh...kind of been wondering the same thing about you," Stark replied, glancing over the edge of his notes at the Director.

"You're _supposed_ to be locating the Tesseract," the Director ground out.

"We are," Doctor Banner interrupted, gesturing smugly towards the screen where my algorithm was proudly displayed. "The model's locked, and we're sweeping for the signature now. When we get a hit, we'll have the location within half a mile."

Stark shrugged, grinning. "And you'll get your cube back, no muss, no fuss." His computer beeped, and he tilted his head to one side. "What _is_ Phase Two?"

Suddenly, Captain Rogers slammed down a large iron weapon onto the stainless steel table. I jumped at the sound, startled by his sudden appearance. What was far more unsettling than the noise, however, was the Captain's murderous expression.

"Phase Two is Shield uses the cube to make weapons." He glanced at Stark and gave him a small nod. "Sorry, the computer was moving a little slow for me." A proud smirk hovered on Stark's lips, and Banner watched the situation unfold over the edge of his glasses, amused.

Director Fury stepped up, trying to placate the man in front of him. With his back to me, I was free to slide over a set of blueprints from my tablet to the larger screen in front of Stark. "Rogers, we gathered everything related to the Tesseract. This does not mean that we—"

"I'm sorry, Nick." Stark turned his screen, which now showed the 3-D blueprints for the weapon on the table, to face Director Fury. "What were you lying?"

"I was wrong, Director," Captain Rogers bit out. Natasha entered the room at that moment, on edge. A tall man in armor followed right behind her. "The world hasn't changed a bit."

"Did you know about this?" Doctor Banner asked Natasha, gesturing with his glasses to the weapon on the table.

"You wanna think about removing yourself from this environment, Doctor?" she asked, answering his question with another.

"I was in Calcutta, I was pretty well removed," he shot back.

"Loki's manipulating you," she warned.

"And you've been doing what exactly?"

"You didn't come here because I bat my eyelashes at you," Natasha countered sharply, stepping towards him. Her patience was wearing thin, I could tell, but Banner wouldn't step down.

"Yes, and I'm not leaving because suddenly you get a little twitchy. I'd like to know why Shield is using the Tesseract to build weapons of mass destruction."

There was a short pause, and then Director Fury, to my surprise, answered, pointing at the blond, muscular man who had just entered the room. "Because of him."

He blinked, uncrossing his arms to gesture towards himself. "Me?"

"Last year earth had a visitor from another planet who had a grudge match that leveled a small town. We learned that not only are we not alone, but we are hopelessly—hilariously—outgunned."

"My people want nothing but peace with your planet," the man pressed earnestly, apparently aghast at the thought that something like this had happened because of him.

"But you're not the only people out there, are you?" Fury snapped. "And, you're not the only threat. The world's filling up with people who can't be matched, who can't be controlled."

My brow furrowed at his words, and I caught Natasha's eye. She was trying to motion for me to leave, but I shook my head, standing my ground. Her expression darkened.

Captain Rogers turned to glare at the Director. "Like you controlled the cube?"

"Your work with the Tesseract is what drew Loki to it; him and his allies," the armored man continued. "It is the signal to all the realms that the earth is ready for a higher form of war."

Captain Rogers stared at the man though he had just sprouted a second head. "A higher form?"

The Director continued to try and justify his actions. By now, he was the only one in the room defending his stance; Natasha had not said a word in his defense, nor had I. "You forced our hand. We had to come up with something—"

"A nuclear deterrent. `cause that always calms everything right down," Stark crossed his arms.

"Remind me again how you made your fortune, Stark?" Director Fury turned his one good eye on Tony Stark, who rose out of his nonchalant position to face him.

It was Captain Rogers, not Stark, who replied to the Director, and I was stunned by his response. Based on the state of the conversation thus far, I would have thought the the Captain would have stood on Stark's side. "I'm sure if you still made weapons, Stark would be neck deep—"

"Wait, wait, hold on, how is now about me?" Stark looked stunned.

Captain Rogers turned to face him, pouring out what appeared to be decades of anger on the shorter man. "I'm sorry, isn't everything?"

"I thought humans were more evolved than this," the blond man griped, glowering at Fury.

It was this man's turn to receive a one-eyed glare from the director. "Excuse me, did _we_ come to _your_ planet and blow stuff up?"

"Do you always give your champions such mistrust?" the man countered.

"Are you all really that naive? Shield monitors potential threats," Natasha spoke for the first time in several minutes, crossing her arms and staring in disappointment at the men around her.

"Captain America is on that watch list?" Banner asked incredulously.

"We all are," she replied.

"Even her?" Banner gestured to me.

Natasha looked torn, and I frowned. Icy fear gripped my stomach. Was I on their watch list? "Natasha?"

She didn't answer me.

"I swear to God, Stark, one more crack—" Captain Rogers looked about ready to throw down with Stark, whose temper was steadily rising.

Stark wouldn't let it go. "You're on that list?" He looked as though Christmas had come early. "Are you above or below angry bees?"

"Stark—"

"Global threat! I feel threatened!"

"You speak of control, yet you court chaos!"

It was Banner's voice that cut through the chaos enough to distinguish himself from the others. "It's his M.O., isn't it? I mean, what are we, a team? No, no, no. We're a chemical mixture that makes chaos. We're... we're a time-bomb," Banner had a maniacal glint in his eye, and I watched as though in slow motion as he began to reach backwards for the scepter upon the table.

" _You_ need to step away," Fury ordered, taking a step towards him.

Stark tried to put his arm around Captain Rogers. "Why shouldn't the guy let off a little steam?"

The Captain practically threw his arm off. "You know damn well why! Back off!"

"Oh, I'm starting to want you to make me," Stark moved closer, searching for buttons to push, apparently convinced that the Captain would find none of his own. I paid close attention to them as my head throbbed, trying to ignore the worry rising within me at the thought that Shield was watching, forever watching. I couldn't get done what I needed done if I was being constantly monitored. I needed them to trust me—but would I jeopardize my morals to get what I wanted?

"Big man in a suit of armor," the Captain continued. "Take that off, what are you?"

"Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist," Stark shot back.

"I know guys with none of that worth ten of you. And I've seen the footage. The only thing you really fight for is yourself. You're not the guy to make the sacrifice play, to lay down on a wire and let the other guy crawl over you."

"I think I would just cut the wire," Stark shrugged.

The smile on the Captain's face frightened me more than his scowl. "Always a way out. You know, you may not be a threat, but you better stop pretending to be a hero."

The Captain had found Stark's button. I saw the change come over Stark's face, and I knew a line had been crossed. I rose from my stool, wobbling a bit unsteadily. "A hero? Like you? You're a laboratory experiment, Rogers. Everything special about you came out of a bottle!"

"That's enough." I took a step forward and almost fell, clutching the edge of a table for support. The ground bucked beneath my feet. No one moved to help me, and I straightened, opening my eyes wide. I wouldn't fail this test, not this time. My vision cleared.

"Put on the suit, let's go a few rounds," Captain Rogers taunted.

The tall man laughed patronizingly. "You people are so petty... and tiny."

"Yeah, this is a team," Banner mocked.

"Agent Ward," Director Fury spoke suddenly, "Would you escort Dr. Banner back to his—"

"Where?" Banner interrupted. "You're renting my room."

"The cell was just in c—"

"In case you needed to kill me, but you can't! I know! I tried!" It was remarkable how little time it took for the room to go silent. I stopped moving, staring in shock at the Doctor. He shifted uncomfortably, glanced at me, and then at the ground. I didn't understand how this man could be dangerous or why everyone was treating him like the time bomb he thought his team to be. "I got low. I didn't see an end, so I put a bullet in my mouth and the other guy spit it out! So I moved on. I focused on helping other people. I was good, until you dragged me back into this freak show and put everyone here at risk!" He turned to Natasha, reaching back with one hand to grasp the golden staff of the scepter. "You wanna know my secret, Agent Romanoff? You wanna know how I stay calm?"

My S.O.'s parter reached down and gripped the gun at her hip. The blade of a knife found its way into my shaking hand. I didn't understand why everyone was treating Doctor Banner like he was about to explode, but I knew that the scepter had done something to my S.O., and that it was dangerous, and that anyone who decided to use it as a weapon would therefore be deemed dangerous. My job as an agent meant that I was supposed to protect others… even from my friends.

Captain Rogers spoke. "Doctor Banner." Banner turned his head sharply, teeth bared, a wild look in his eye. The Captain's face stiffened, but his voice remained calm and authoritative. "Put down the scepter."

Banner looked down at the weapon in his hand and blanched, seemingly shocked that he was holding it. The larger computer began beeping wildly, signaling that the Tesseract had been found. Everyone in the room jumped and spun around to stare at the screen, startled.

"Got it."

Doctor Banner set the scepter back on the table and slouched over to the monitor, glowering at the others. "Sorry, kids. You don't get to see my little party trick after all."

"You've located the Tesseract?"

"I can get there faster," Stark announced, glancing down at his watch.

"Look, all of us—" the Captain began.

My tablet went off. While the others had been searching for the Tesseract, I had been running my S.O.'s image through the mainframe, searching for any sign of his presence. Several hours ago, the program had sighted his face climbing into a small quinjet, the number of which had just been registered in the Helicarrier's log. He was here. The others were still arguing, Stark and Captain Rogers first and foremost among them.

"You're not going alone!"

Stark threw the Captain's hand off his arm. "You gonna stop me?"

"Put on the suit, let's find out."

"Natasha?" I looked up, only to see that she was deep in argument with the tall blond alien, oblivious to my horror. She seemed to be content with ignoring me as I had her. My patience thinned. "Natasha!"

"I'm not afraid to hit an old man."

"Put on the suit."

"Oh, my God."

I looked around and locked eyes with Doctor Banner. I took a step towards him, towards the center of the room. A deep rumbling echoed from the bowels of the ship, and a moment later, flames erupted from the floor, surrounding me like a cocoon before sending me hurtling towards the glass panes that lined the front of the ship.


	10. Chapter 10

_August 17, 2005_

 _"_ _You're leaving?"_

 _Fear shone in the eyes of the preteen Thomas was leaving behind. He wanted with all his heart to take her with him, but… he couldn't. He had to live his own life—escape from his home. His parents had never mistreated him the way they had Samantha, but he still couldn't stand to be around them knowing what they'd done. And he couldn't stand to be around her—she made him feel so, so guilty: a constant reminder that he'd failed her._

 _"_ _I have to go."_

 _Samantha swallowed thickly. "Can you take me with you?"_

 _Thomas glanced over her shoulder at his parents, who were getting ready to leave for the weekend to move him into college. "No. Sam." He leaned forward and hugged her, his heart breaking at the way her body had begun to tremble. "Go to Jonathan's house." He spoke over her objections, tightening his grip slightly. "Don't come back, Sam. Please. I love you."_

 _She swallowed and closed her burning eyes. She was more afraid to disobey her parents than she was of being alone with them. She had never disobeyed Thomas's orders—until now._

 _"_ _I love you, too."_

May 7, 2012

My back struck the wall, forcing the air from my lungs. I landed on my front, my injured arm trapped beneath me. Screams and blaring alarms tore through the air. Fear paralyzed me. I could barely think—but out of nowhere, I remembered the conversation I'd had with Natasha after I'd failed my Sim.

 _"You have to get out of your head, Sam." Natasha shook hers, understanding and unrelenting. "You're going to run into fires on your missions, you need to be prepared for it."_

 _"It caught me off guard." I threw the knife at the target, hitting it dead center. Natasha handed me another knife._

 _"So will a bomb," she retorted smartly, watching as I hurled the blade at the wall and knocked the previous knife out of its place. "You can't let this fear control you."_

"I won't be afraid," I whispered. I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and lifted my face, trying to see what the damage was.

There was a large hole in the floor where the explosion had torn through the metal grates. Flames licked at a few pieces of furniture, but there was very little to burn. As I watched, Captain Rogers and Mr. Stark stumbled from the room, supporting one another. Natasha and Doctor Banner were gone, as was the blond man whose name I had never heard. I was alone—and then I wasn't.

"Agent Ward, can you stand?" Director Fury grabbed hold of my good arm and hauled me to my feet. With one hand, he kept me balanced, and with the other, he held the scepter.

"Yes, Sir." I stared at the glowing staff with wide eyes and then locked eyes with him. "Sir, what—?"

"We're under attack. Take this." He shoved the scepter into my hand and closed my fingers around it. "Take it back to your quarters, as far away from the prison block as possible. Romanoff showed you the cell, didn't she?"

I nodded numbly, staring down at the scepter. The metal was ice cold. A feeling of dread began to seep into my bones, and it took every bit of discipline I possessed to keep from throwing the weapon back into my Director's face.

"There's a man named Loki locked inside. Do not let him near the scepter, Agent. Do not tell anyone where you are going. You protect this with your life, understand?"

I nodded again. "Yes, Sir."

"Go." He backed out of the room, a hand on his gun. "Go!"

I stood frozen for a moment, staring down at the scepter in my hand, and then tore out of the room as quickly as I could go. My heart thundered in my ears as I ran, and my body shook uncontrollably. Being caught in a firestorm like that… Chills surged up my spine, and I shuddered.

I rounded the corner and ran smack into one of the men who had been in the lab with me. It was the blond one, the one bedecked in armor. He straightened, then looked at me, down at the scepter, and back at me again.

"Where do you think you are going with this?" His meaty hand closed around the staff, and he pulled it—and me—towards him. As difficult as it was to maintain a grip on the thing with only one hand, I refused to let go, letting out an undignified squeak as my shoes skidded against the floor.

"Director Fury told me to hide it," I pulled back, planting my feet against the floor and trying to pull the scepter back towards me. I may as well have tried uprooting a sequoia by hanging from one of its branches. "Let go!"

"You were in the room with us just now," he recalled, refusing to budge. His expression was both stony and amused, an odd combination. "You tried to keep my two companions from quarreling. Were you injured by the explosion?"

I took a breath, discouraged by my lack of progress, and shook my head. "No." This week had been one of the worst in my life—a little explosion couldn't do much to dampen my spirits, not with everything else going on. I could curl into a ball and cry about it later.

"Agent Ward!"

The man and I both turned—both still maintaining a firm grip on the scepter—to see Coulson sprinting down the hall towards us, coat flapping around him.

"Thor, let go of the scepter. Agent Ward is one of mine, she can be trusted."

"Son of Coul, what is the meaning of this?" Thor released his grip, and I took a couple steps back before dropping the butt of the spear to touch the ground and using the weapon as a cane.

"Doctor Banner is wreaking havoc on the lower levels; Thor, I need you to subdue him and then make sure your brother stays in his cell. Can you do that?" Thor nodded in affirmation before turning and heading down a stairwell to his left. "Agent, come with me."

"Sir—" I followed as quickly as I could, using the weapon as a walking stick. The _clang_ of gold on tile announced my presence to anyone within hearing distance. "Sir, where are you going?"

Coulson didn't even look over his shoulder. "Where did Director Fury tell you to go?"

"He told me not to say." I stopped walking. When the resounding _click_ went silent, Coulson stopped as well.

"Samantha, listen to me." I was startled by the use of my first name, so startled that I actually listened. He put his hands on my upper arms and looked me straight in the eye. "Go to wherever Fury ordered you to go—but _do not stay there_ , do you understand? You hide that thing and then you get out."

"But he told me to protect—"

"Agent, you have more potential than half the men and women on board this Helicarrier. I've seen you spar. You took out Agent Romanoff—that's something even Agent May was never able to do."

I didn't know that name. "Who?"

"That's not important." Coulson shook his head impatiently and then fixed me with his piercing stare. "What is important is that you, at your best, couldn't beat Clint in a fair fight. You're lucky to be alive, and you're nowhere near your best right now. If he finds you with the scepter, the fight that followed would be short and brutal, and we'd have lost one of our most promising agents." He squeezed my arms. "Hide it, Agent. Meet me in the cell block afterwards."

"Coulson!" He didn't look back, and soon he was gone from view. I turned and hurried off towards my quarters, praying that I would complete my mission without difficulty.

I didn't make it back to my quarters.

Several agents, all dressed in black but only some with burning blue eyes, jumped me. I managed to take out a couple of them with well-aimed knives and a stolen gun, but, in the end, I lost the battle. The rogue agents beat me nearly to death—I blacked out at least twice without losing my grip on the scepter. One of them tried to stab me with my own knife, but ended up with it in his eye. They wrenched the scepter from my grip and left me for dead in the middle of the hallway.

 _"_ _Do not let him near the scepter, Agent."_

I rolled over, whimpering, and placed my palms flat against the slick floor. Stark had explained the scepter to me: it was controlling Clint. If Loki got it back, then Clint would be back under his control.

 _"_ _You protect this with your life, understand?"_

"I understand, Sir," I gasped, pulling myself forward and up.

The ground bucked and rolled beneath me, and I vomited, spilling half-digested blueberries over the body of one of the men I had killed.

Oh, God.

I threw myself forward than back, trying to get away from the agents I had killed. Agents. These were men who I worked with, men I might have met before. Why hadn't I remembered? Why hadn't I done what Natasha had said—Cognitive Recalibration? Why had my first instinct been to fight to kill?

I stumbled down the hallway, leaving bloody hand and footprints in my wake. My heart was heavy, but my eyes were dry. Only one thing was on my mind: I had to get the scepter back. Coulson said to meet him at the cell—that's what I would do.

I limped forward, going deeper and deeper into the heart of the Helicarrier while terrifying explosions echoed all around me. More than once, the ship lurched, throwing me forward down the hall or against the wall. I made it to the prison block, and I glimpsed a suit from where I stood. "Coulson!" my voice came out a hoarse whimper, but before I could try again, I spotted Thor standing behind him, hands pressed against the thick windows of the cell. I moved forward until I was almost in the room but still hidden in the shadows of the hallway.

"Move away, please." Coulson spoke quickly. He carried an enormous weapon in his arms. It was made of dark metal, and its mouth glowed with an eerie yellow light—I had never seen anything like it before.

Thor locked eyes with me, shook his head, and then glanced away. A man in green and gold armor froze beside the control panel. He had sallow skin and long, dark hair that was combed back back in greasy waves from his face. He looked like he had just been tortured.

"You like this?" Coulson hefted the weapon, and I pulled a knife from my belt, only to find that my hands were shaking horribly. The man in green moved away from the control panels, his hands slightly lifted in surrender. "We started working on the prototype after you sent the Destroyer."

Coulson continued to advance on the man—Loki. Behind Loki's back, Thor motioned to me with his hammer, trying to get me to move away to safety. I couldn't move.

"Even I don't know what it does." He did something to activate it, and it hummed to life, glowing menacingly. I watched the interaction nervously, but noted that Loki did not have his scepter—yet. As long as he didn't have it, Clint was safe, and no one else could be controlled or hut. "Do you want to find out?"

Something tore through Coulson's shirt, and a strangled cry of pain tore from his lips as the tip of a silver spear protruded from his chest. Loki was behind him, scepter in hand—but he also was in front of him—and now his image was fading, melting away as though it had never been—because I suppose it never had. I was too shocked and hurt to bother wondering how he had done it.

"NO!" Thor screamed, slamming his fist against the glass. I covered my mouth to keep from screaming. My knife fell and would have clattered to the floor—I caught it at the last second, blade against my palm, and was too shocked to realize that the razor-sharp blade was cutting through my hand.

Coulson fell to the ground, back against the wall, fighting for breath. His weapon lay in his lap, and one arm was still curved protectively around it. He glanced my way, locking eyes with me, and shook his head minutely. Loki stood calmly back to the control panel while Thor looked on, grief etched in every line of his face. For the first time, I noticed a crack in the glass about at eye level with Thor, and I found myself praying that he would find a way to escape.

Loki chuckled as he lifted the cover off one of the panels. The floor below the pod unfolded, and deafening wind whistled into the room. Thor looked right at me, then backed away into the center of the cell. A moment later, the cell dropped, taking Thor with it, sending him hurtling to earth at a speed that no one, not even a god, could survive. I covered my mouth with my hand and swallowed a sob as the floor panels closed once more.

"You're going to lose."

Loki froze and turned to stare at Coulson, who was lying weakly against the wall, looking up at his murderer. I had seen death before. No one could survive this sort of wound, not without immediate treatment.

"Am I?" His voice was softer than I expected it to be.

"It's in your nature."

The man tipped his head like a curious child. "Your heroes are scattered. Your floating fortress falls from the sky—" His brow furrowed in genuine curiosity. "Where is my disadvantage?"

Coulson's lips parted. "You lack conviction."

Loki's face twisted into an expression I couldn't identify. "I don't think I—"

A flash of yellow light cut him off and sent him crashing through the wall to my right. I watched in awe, then looked back to Coulson. A faint smile pulled at the corner of his bloodied lips.

"So that's what it does."

I scrambled to my feet, fell, and then crawled to his side. I fumbled for my comms and fought to keep my voice steady.

"I have an Agent down—does anyone copy?" My voice cracked. "Agent Coulson is down, I repeat, Agent Coulson is down."

 _"_ _Copy. What is your location?"_

"The cell block—Loki's cell. Please hurry," I choked out. Tears blurred my vision as I tugged off my vest and pressed it to the bleeding wound in his chest. There was nothing I could do. He had been skewered—I couldn't stop the bleeding from one side, much less two—and from the way the wound was positioned, I had to assume that Coulson had been stabbed through the heart. "Sir, I'm so sorry. I tried to keep them from it, but—"

"It's not your fault, Agent."

"I killed them," I whispered, looking up to meet his fading gaze. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay. It's war, Agent." He shook his head, and I pushed the weapon off him. He grunted in pain, and a tear dripped down my nose.

"Just keep talking." I shifted gears, trying to remember that he was hurt, that I had to focus on him, not me. "Keep talking. Help is coming, Agent Coulson, I promise."

"Phil."

I glanced between his eyes, confused. "What?"

"My name… it's Phil."

I nodded quickly. "Okay, okay, okay—Phil. Help is coming, okay? You're going to be fine. You're going to see this through to the end. I promise you, Loki is going to be taken down—" Tears burned the back of my throat, and I took a deep breath. "And you're going to be there when that happens."

"I picked you, you know."

"What?" I was trying to hold back tears, but I couldn't. Everything from the past few weeks was coming down on me all at once—killing for the first time, the second. Fighting my S.O. and losing. Killing those agents in the hall. Failing my mission—and, through my failure, causing the death of my handler.

"When you were… taken in for questioning. I asked that you be placed… in Shield's Academy of Operations. I thought… you might prove yourself." His breathing grew labored.

"But I didn't. I didn't, Coulson—"

"You did. You—" he took a deep breath as the stains on his shirt grew larger. "—proved your loyalty to Shield. You would've died to keep that scepter away from Loki, to protect Barton. You couldn't even walk over here."

"I failed," I whispered, swiping at my eyes. For the first time, I noticed the blood dripping down my fingers from my palm. I had smeared blood all across my already bloodied face without realizing it.

"You tried," he whispered back. He closed his eyes, letting his head drop back against the wall. "I'm so tired."

I panicked and grabbed his hand, hissing as the cut on my palm stretched. "Coulson—Phil—look at me, please. Please, don't go."

"I'm here," he whispered. His next words broke my heart. "I don't want to die."

Other Shield operatives flooded the room, Director Fury among them. He knelt down beside me, giving me a concerned look, but his main focus was on Coulson. The agent's eyes fluttered open. His voice was barely a whisper.

"I'm sorry, Boss. The guy rabbited."

Fury shook his head. "Just stay awake." He gripped Phil's chin gently but firmly, turning his face to look at him. "Eyes on me."

Coulson's head moved weakly from side to side. "No—I'm clocked out, here."

Fury's face hardened. "Not an option."

"It's okay, Boss," Coulson breathed. Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. "This was never gonna work—if they didn't have something—" he took a shuddering breath, then another. "—to—" he took another breath, then looked at me, and then he was gone. I saw the instant he died, saw his eyes turn vacant in an instant.

I sat there, legs crumpled under me, stunned. Fury didn't move. There were tears in his remaining eye. After a long time, he stood, and the medics I had called in so long ago finally arrived on the scene. I pushed myself backwards to lean my head against the railing, unable to use my legs. Now, I knew why—there was a long gash from my lower thigh down, across my knee and shin, to my calf. One of the agents I'd fought had managed to cut me after all.

"Agent—" Fury's voice cracked, and then the Director's voice was in my ear and also beside me. I heard his voice and then an echo of it, so I had to hear his words twice.

 _"_ _Agent Coulson is down."_ He closed his eye. _"Paramedics are on the scene."_

I watched everything with an odd sense of detachment. My vest was still in Coulson's lap. His eyes were still open. I scooted over to him as the medics cleared away, and with my unbloodied hand, I shut them. Director Fury gripped me under the arms and lifted me up. He looked like he'd aged twenty years in the span of a few minutes. He handed me off to another medic after nodding once to me, acknowledging my sacrifice.

 _"_ _They called it."_


	11. Chapter 11

_November 12, 2007_

 _"_ _Did you know that Grant escaped from prison?" The brown eyed teenager glanced up at Jonathan and shrugged. Although her tone was nonchalant, the boy could see the anger and fear burning in her eyes._

 _He nodded slowly and glanced back down at his computer, trying to decide what to say. "Yeah, I did. Dad told me."_

 _"_ _What else did he tell you?" she asked, tugging on the ends of her sleeves._

 _Jonathan frowned a little. It was cold outside, sure, but not in here. He could see sweat beading on her forehead. "Are you hot?" he asked suddenly, reaching towards the thermostat on the wall behind her. "I can turn the air up if you—"_

 _The girl shrank away from his hand, and he frowned. "No, I'm fine."_

 _Samantha's previous comments about her brother were forgotten. Jonathan glanced at the hallway and leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Are you okay?"_

 _Samantha nodded quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired."_

 _"_ _Where'd you get that?" he asked, reaching over to point at her collar, where her sweater had slipped and a purple bruise had formed. You would've thought his hand was a snake. The girl fell out of the bed in her haste to get away from him, striking her shoulder on the corner of the table in the process. She landed in a tearful, crumpled heap beside his bed, not moving._

 _"_ _Sam!" Jonathan leapt after her._

 _His father appeared in the doorway a moment later. "Samantha?" He crossed over to her and knelt down beside her, not touching her. She sat up after a moment, not meeting his eyes. "Are you alright?"_

 _She nodded._

 _"_ _I didn't know you were here." He reached for an unopened water bottle on his son's windowsill. "Are you working on a project?"_

 _She nodded again._

 _"_ _Alright. Stay here as long as you need, okay? And—" he hesitated. "And know that you can tell me anything, alright? Rosalyn and I—we're here for you, okay?"_

 _She nodded, brown eyes filling with tears. "Okay."_

May 7, 2012

Director Fury turned to me. "Agent Ward, I'm gonna need you to come with me."

I stood, keeping my gaze locked on the bloodstained patch of wall where I had just seen my handler die. The gash in my leg stretched, and I nearly fell over. The medic beside me caught me. He hadn't been able to do much besides binding my leg and wiping the blood off my face to check for head injuries, and there were too many smaller hurts for him to get to before I obeyed my orders.

"I need to debrief Captain Rogers and Mr. Stark. You were never intended to be a part of this team, but…" he shook his head. "I owe you an explanation. I'm sorry you got caught up in all this."

I nodded, numbly accepting his apology. He didn't seem to expect anything more, and was silent the remainder of the journey to the deck. When we reached our destination, I sank down into a chair at the round, glass table, Captain Rogers on my left. Tony Stark rested a hand on my shoulder in greeting and then moved to sit in the chair to Captain Roger's left. My medic went to go stand in the corner, apparently of too low a level of clearance to hear the conversation. Agent Hill stood within hearing distance, watching us silently.

Director Fury stood silent for a long time, staring at something in his hands. I watched the table, noting how silent everyone was. Coulson's death had cast a shadow over all of Shield. He finally spoke, not taking his eyes off the object in his hands. "These were in Phil Coulson's jacket. Guess he never did get you to sign them." Director Fury tossed the object—objects—onto the table towards Captain Rogers. They scattered, and something on them stained the glass red.

Coulson's trading cards. Captain Rogers picked one up and stared blankly down at the aged image of himself, now stained with blood. I took up the others and tried to rub the blood off, to no avail. It was then that I realized that my hands were too covered with blood to do any good. Captain Rogers, who noticed the blood but didn't care about getting it on his own hands, placed one of his hands over mine. His hand dwarfed my own. He gave me a sad little smile and gently took the cards from me. Without a word, he stacked them into a neat little pile and set them back onto the table. Stark ran a hand over his bruised face.

Director Fury watched our interaction and waited for it to end before he spoke again. "We're dead in the air up here. Our communications, location of the cube, Banner, Thor… I got nothing for you. Lost my one good eye." His voice broke a little, and he shook his head. "Maybe I had that coming. Yes, we were going to build an arsenal with the Tesseract. I never put all my chips on that number though, because I was playing something even riskier. There was an idea—Stark knows this—called the Avengers Initiative. The idea was to bring together a group of remarkable people, see if they could become something more. See if they could work together when we needed them to, to fight the battles that we never could." He paused for a moment. "Phil Coulson died still believing in that idea. In _heroes_."

Stark stood abruptly at the last word of Fury's speech, his face twisting with suppressed emotion. He left the room before he could hear any more.

Fury waited a few moments in silence before he moved to leave, following Stark out the door. "Well, it's an _old fashioned_ notion."

Captain Rogers waited until the Director had gone before he spoke. "Are you alright?"

I considered lying but had a feeling that he would know, and I knew it would save time and effort on both our parts if I just told the truth. "No."

"Coulson was a good man," he said, staring despondently down at the cards.

"Yeah, he was." I tore my gaze from the cards and swallowed thickly. The man beside me—he looked terrible. His hair was mussed, and dark bags formed sickly crescents beneath his eyes. He wasn't in his uniform anymore, nor was he in his previous getup—he somewhere in between, a war-ravaged young man who had lost too much in too short a time. "Are you okay?"

A dry chuckle, barely more than an exhale, escaped his nose. His lips quirked humorlessly. "Am I okay," he mused. After a moment, he shook his head. "No, ma'am, I'm not."

For the first time, I saw the man behind the suit. This wasn't some invincible hero—he was just a man, and he was hurting.

"Is there anything I can do?" The words were out of my mouth before I could process them, but I wasn't ashamed of having asked them. He glanced at me in surprise but shook his head.

"No, ma'am, I don't think there is," he murmured, staring straight ahead. After a beat, he glanced at me again. "What's your first name, Agent Ward?"

"Sam—I mean, Samantha."

"And how old are you, Samantha?" he asked curiously.

"Nine—eighteen," I corrected myself, recounting the years. "I turn nineteen in July."

Captain Rogers nodded, then licked his cracking lips. His next words were slightly slurred, as though he didn't quite realize that he was speaking his thoughts aloud. "I turn ninety-two in July."

"You've aged well," I offered weakly.

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. "What is the worst thing that's happened to you?"

I felt my expression change, transforming my face into an emotionless mask. "A lot of bad stuff's happened to me," I finally murmured. "I don't have many good memories."

He studied me for a moment, taking in my mask and my fidgeting hands. "My dad died when I was six; Mom died when I was nineteen," he told me. "My best friend joined the army when I was twenty-two. I joined a year later. He died when I was twenty-four. I…" he hesitated. "I went under a few months later. Got woken up a few weeks ago."

"A few _weeks_ ago?" I gasped, shocked. "Why—?"

"Doesn't matter. Point is… I've seen a lotta stuff in my life. Seen a lotta good people die." He looked down at the card that was still clutched in his hand. "It never gets any easier."

"Captain Rogers—"

"Steve, please," he interrupted.

"Steve," I tried again, testing out the name. I placed my hand lightly on his forearm. When I felt him tense, I lifted my fingertips from his arm, but he didn't pull away. "I'm sorry."

He nodded wearily. "Me too."

"Sam!"

Natasha barreled towards me as quickly as she could. Steve Rogers glanced her way and rose from his seat, leaving it open for her. She moved with a limp, keeping her weight off one foot more than the other. She stopped in front of me and looked me over, wild-eyed.

"It was nice talking to you, Samantha," Steve said. He nodded respectfully to Natasha before he left, probably to find Mr. Stark.

"I'm okay," I told Natasha, staring blankly over her shoulder at Steve as he left. Coulson's card was still between his fingers. She ignored my claim and proceeded to examine the rapidly forming bruises that covered almost my entire body. My arm was back in a sling, and my leg had been tightly bandaged by a medic whose uniform had been slightly charred by an explosion.

"You're not." She looked down at the table where Agent Coulson's trading cards had fallen. Blood was smeared across the decades-old paper, and passing agents were going out of their way to avoid looking at them.

"It's my fault he's dead," I deadpanned, keeping my eyes locked on that little deck of cards. "If I had hidden the scepter in time, or put up more of a fight—"

"Your first mission was less than two weeks ago," Natasha interrupted. "The first time you took a life was less than _two weeks ago._ You haven't even had time to sit down for a Psych Eval yet. You've been in training for less than six months."

"What's your point?"

Natasha gripped my chin and forced me to look at her, ignoring the objections from my medic, who was positioned nearby. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen, her hair a mess. Her lip was busted, and there was a dark bruise on her hairline. Her tone reminded me how dangerous she was, and the reminded had a similar effect to that of an electric shock. I blinked. "My _point_ ," she growled menacingly, "is that no one in their right mind would have let you enter the field this early. Clint didn't want you in so soon, but a higher ranking agent overruled his decision. The only reason you were sent in after Clint is because Shield knows how much you mean to him. They thought you could wake him up, that backfired. The only reason you were sent away with the scepter is because there were no other options. All of this—" she gestured around the room, "is because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

I swallowed and tugged my face free of her grip. "What happened to you?"

Her expression made it clear that she didn't appreciate the change in topic or the slight against her appearance. "Clint," she replied shortly, running a hand through her matted hair.

I sat up straighter in my chair. "He's here? Is he okay?"

"He's alive." The fight went out of her and she sat heavily in Captain Roger's vacated chair, rubbing her swollen ankle. "It'll be a long time before he's alright."

Suddenly the pain I was feeling didn't seem so important. I swallowed and sat up a little straighter, wincing as the cut on my leg knocked against the edge of my seat. "Can I see him?"

Natasha glanced at the nearby medic, who nodded. "Yeah. Come on." She helped me up, and together we limped back towards our quarters, each using the other as a crutch.

"Where are we going?" I asked, looking around. There was blood smeared all along the floors. Distorted handprints marked the walls. I shivered, spreading my bloody fingers out to avoid touching each other. Natasha pretended not to notice.

"Our room. Didn't you notice that there was an extra bed?" I nodded, fighting the bile that burned its way up my throat at the sight of the blood that I had spilled. "That one belongs to Clint."

Clint was awake when we finally reached the room. A large purple knot had formed above his eye where Natasha had hit him. He glanced up when the door opened, and he stood when he saw me, gasping in relief. "Hey, Sammie." He reached out and engulfed me in a bearhug. I froze for a moment, thrown off by the use of my childhood nickname and unsure of what to do—I hadn't been hugged like this in… well, _ever_. After a few stunned seconds, I awkwardly reciprocated the hug, wrapping my remaining arm around his chest and clutching a handful of his shirt.

"I'm so glad you're okay." I gasped, painfully aware of how tightly he was holding me, and he let go. Natasha helped him back to the bed.

Clint looked me over, and pain clouded his eyes. "Did I do this?" He gestured to all of me—the sling, the bandaged leg, the blood, the bruises.

"No," I replied quickly, shaking my head. "Not—not all of it."

He nodded quickly and swiped at his eyes. "Sam." He looked up and stared me straight in the eyes. "I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault." I shook my head firmly. "Loki was controlling you."

"Loki," he repeated the name, his face twisting with loathing and disgust. "He was on the Helicarrier. How many agents—"

"Clint." Natasha cut him off. "Don't do that to yourself."

He sighed and ran a hand over his cropped hair. "Yeah, I know." After a beat, he looked up, looking slightly more cheerful. "Nat, where's Phil? I need to speak with him about New Mexico." He glanced between the two of us, gaze lingering first on my pained expression and then on Natasha's blank one. "Nat?"

He turned his gray eyes on me. They were wide and confused, like a child's. "Sammie?"

My throat closed. I took a ragged breath and then stood and limped into the adjoining room. There was a sink there, and I turned the water on full blast till it blocked out almost all sound. It was painfully cold, but I relished the feel of it, and I scrubbed at my arms and face until my skin was raw. As hard as I tried, I couldn't block out the sound of Clint's scream of rage and pain; I couldn't block out the sound of his weeping.

I couldn't wash the blood from my hands.

"Sam. _Sam._ "

Someone reached past me and shut the water off. Natasha stood there with one hand on the faucet, staring at me in concern. My S.O. was standing right behind her, watching me with bloodshot eyes.

"Sam," Natasha repeated, reaching out and touching my uninjured shoulder. "I told you. It wasn't your fault."

I looked past her at Clint. "When we get back to base, will you keep training me?" I asked. My voice cracked. Natasha left the room, giving me a moment of privacy with my S.O. "I wasn't strong enough this time, and—and I don't want this to ever happen again."

He nodded solemnly and then reached out and squeezed my hand. "Yeah, kiddo. I promise."

Something glanced across the mirror. "Captain Rogers?" I stepped out of the side room.

He nodded, acknowledging my presence, but kept his attention on Natasha. "Time to go."

She frowned, evidently not expecting to be pulled away from her partner so soon. "Go where?"

"I'll tell you on the way. Can you fly one of those jets?"

Clint stepped out of the bathroom and stood behind me. "I can."

Steve glanced at Natasha, and she nodded, affirming Clint's allegiance. "You got a suit?"

"Yeah." He nodded.

"Then suit up." Steve looked at me. "You're sitting this one out."

When I opened my mouth to protest, all three adults cut me off, but it was Clint whose soft voice rang louder than the others. "You're injured, you're unstable, you're too emotionally charged, and you're a liability," he stated flatly. "Hey," he added, taking in my crestfallen expression. "Knowing that you're here, out of harm's way—that's what's going to help Natasha and I. Besides—" he glanced at Natasha. "You haven't finished your training yet. Wait till graduation, then you can come fight some aliens with us."

I cracked a smile. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Captain Roger's shoulders relax in obvious relief. I glanced up at him. "You don't want a woman in the field?" I asked, tilting my head to one side. I was joking, but he didn't know that.

His cheeks burned with heat as Natasha turned to look at him as well. "No, ma'am, that's not it at all. I just don't want _you_ in the field. You remind me of…" he trailed off, and his eyebrows creased together in a heartbreaking little frown, like he was trying to find a piece of information that wasn't there. "… of someone I once knew," he finished, obviously troubled.

"Good enough for me," Natasha stood and reached under the bed for her duffel. "We'll meet you at Hangar Six."

She glanced back at me as she and Clint moved to leave the room, leaving me behind. "Don't go back to the main deck," she advised me softly. "You don't have clearance. It's probably best that you don't know what's going on, where we're going." She slipped me a small glass tablet. "But just in case." She winked at me, but I could see the worry behind the twinkle in her eye. "We'll be back soon."


	12. Chapter 12

_June 16, 2010_

 _"_ _I have an idea."_

 _"_ _What sort of idea?"_

 _"_ _A way to get you out from under your parents." Johnny looked up when Sam didn't reply. "Sam?"_

 _"_ _It isn't possible."_

 _"_ _I already started."_

 _She glanced at him, eyes wide. "What?"_

 _"_ _You've always been great with computers, right? I taught you everything I know." Johnny couldn't contain the grin spreading across his face. "I've already started. I'm making someone for you."_

 _"'_ _Making someone'?"_

 _"_ _I'm creating a new identity for you—well, two of them. That way you can disappear, get away from your parents. Your old identity will be gone—it'll say that you've died, or something—but there'll be a new identity for you to take up in the meantime, and after college you pick up a new one."_

 _"_ _What's her name?" Sam moved closer, peering at the screen, which was filled with endless scrolling lines of code._

 _"_ _Jennifer. Jennifer Guiles."_

September 23, 2013

"Agent, please report to the laboratory on the seventh floor for testing."

"Are you kidding me?" The agent shrugged her duffel onto the floor and spread her arms out wide, indicating her bruised and bloodied appearance. "I got back two minutes ago! Can I at least shower?"

"My orders come from Commander Hill," the agent shook his head, mouth thinning. "Her orders were for you to report immediately to the lab—Lab 17-C."

"Do your orders come with a 'Why'?" she asked. The agent shook his head and left, leaving the door open behind him.

Samantha Ward made a face but obeyed the orders, wincing her way to the elevator and to the laboratory. She stepped out into a brightly lit hallway and was almost immediately run down by a cart piled high with medical equipment. The door directly in front of her read 21-A.

"Uh, excuse me—" she caught the attention of a wild-eyed woman in a stained lab coat. "Could you direct me to Lab 17-C?"

"Down the hall, take a left, take another left, then another, then another—"

"That would take me back here," Sam tilted her head, shooting the woman a smile that looked more like a leer.

"So you people at Operations aren't _all_ idiots." She gave Sam a once-over.

"Okay, y'know what? I'll find it myself. Thank you for your time." She pushed past the woman, scanning the different doors. She wasn't wandering for long—a young man of average hight was running around, frantic.

"Miss!" He skidded to a stop in front of her, ridiculously out of breath to the point that his accept was slurred. "I'm looking for an 'Agent Ward,' have you seen—"

"That's me."

"Ah, good." He ran a hand through his curls. "You're late. Follow me."

She did so without retort, following him through the labyrinth of laboratories until she reached the assigned 17-C. A young woman a few years older than Samantha herself was examining something through a microscope. She tutted in disapproval as the two entered the room.

"You're late," she observed, her English accent standing out like a sore thumb. "I thought you were told to report here immediately."

Samantha lifted her arms and peered down at her sweaty, bloody clothing. "I had to take time to clean up."

"Don't be cute, Agent Ward." The woman sighed wearily and gestured for Samantha to sit. "My name is Doctor Simmons, this is Doctor Fitz. Please remove your jacket."

Samantha did as she was told. "Could you tell me what I'm doing here?" she asked. "I was told I was being sent here for testing?"

"Your physical health is being evaluated," Doctor Simmons said, swabbing the inside of Samantha's arm.

"Why?"

"You're being reassigned, Agent." Commander Hill entered the lab as Doctor Simmons slid a needle into Sam's arm.

Sam nodded respectfully. "Ma'am."

"Small team: assesses potential threats and situations but avoids the actual fighting." She gave Sam a searching look. "It would seem that someone upstairs thinks you've seen enough fighting."

"With all due respect, Ma'am, New York was over a year ago. I've recovered." The doctors exchanged a furtive look. "I've excelled in my training—for Heaven's sake, I got back from a mission fifteen minutes ago—one that I completed successfully, without any hitches, I might add. Ma'am," she added as an afterthought.

Commander Hill shook her head. "I know that, Agent. I recommended you for the team."

Samantha moved to stand, but Doctor Fitz pushed her back into the chair. "You—why?"

"Because I received your Psych Eval, Agent."

Sam's eyes dropped to the ground, and a flush creeped up her neck.

"You need to take a break, Sam." The Commander's voice softened the smallest bit. "I was with you during New York. I've overseen your training since Agents Barton and Romanoff were sent out on assignment. You've progressed well, but you need a change of pace."

"So, who is a part of this team?" she asked.

Commander Hill gave her a searching look. "Agents Fitz and Simmons, for one," she said, nodding at the doctors.

Doctor Fitz looked up in surprise, pausing in his attempted to stick an electrode to Sam's chest. "She's coming with us?"

Hill didn't answer. "I'll let you figure the rest out yourself. You'll meet the Commanding Officer yourself soon enough."

"So—" Sam leaned forward to catch a glimpse of Hill as she moved to leave. Doctor Fitz grumbled in response, connecting her to a heart monitor and all manner of other devices. "When do I leave?"

"In the morning," Hill called back.

"In the morning," she repeated softly. Her phone buzzed as though in response to her thoughts; she pulled out her phone with her free hand and pulled up the message. A few moments later, she slid with phone back into her pocket.

"Who was that?" Doctor Simmons asked, sliding the needle from her arm.

"Who?"

"The man who texted you." She rolled her eyes at Sam's expression. "Please, I wasn't born yesterday." Even if she had been, it would not have mattered: Sam's heart rate, currently on display for the room to see, had leapt in response to the message.

"My teammate texted to let me know he got home okay." Doctor Simmons began bustling around her and had her close her eyes to run some tests on her hearing.

Someone knocked on the door. Doctor Fitz moved to answer it, and another man began to speak.

"Don't mind that." Doctor Simmons leaned closer to Sam. "Please state your full name, birthdate, and age."

"Uh, Samantha Ward, July 29, 1993, and twenty."

"Your _full_ name, please," Doctor Simmons corrected. "Repeat the information again."

"Samantha Jocelyn Ward," she amended. "Born on July 29, 1993, which—" something clattered to the ground. "—makes me…" She opened her eyes and swiveled around in her chair to see the source of the noise.

"Don't mind him," Doctor Simmons tried to recapture Sam's attention. "Agent Ward—"

Samantha didn't move. She and the man in the doorway remained frozen, identical brown eyes locked in a stare-down. Sam's heart rate spiked, on display for all to see. "Sammie?"

"Do you… know each other?" Doctor Simmons asked, glancing uneasily between the two.

"She's my—you're my—" Recognition flickered across Grant's face. "I knew I knew you. You lied to me. You said—"

"Sir," Doctor Simmons went into action and began ushering him out the door. "We're in the middle of a physical, please return back here in two hours; thank you." She shut the door in his face and turned back to Samantha. The blood had drained from her face. "Agent Ward? Samantha," she tried. "Look at me."

She turned her face slowly to face Doctor Simmons, but her expression was completely blank, and her eyes were unfocused. "Fitz? Fitz, come here." He was at her side in an instant. "This doesn't look good."

"No, she's going into shock."

"Samantha? Fitz, she's not answering, find out who her teammate is and have him come down to get her."

"Aren't you going to finish the test?" Fitz asked, plucking Sam's phone from the table.

"She's physically fit as a horse but has PTSD and perhaps another disorder as well. Call her teammate, now. We have her blood, we can test it for any internal diseases later."

"Uh, yes, hello? Is this Samantha Ward's teammate?" Fitz paused. "Doctor Leopold Fitz, with SHIELD—yeah, listen, Agent Ward's gone into some state of shock—no, I don't know what happened. Are you here at this facility? Yes, alright. Yes, Lab 17-C. Alright. Right. Bye." He hung up the phone. "I think I know what happened."

"Please share." Simmons began disconnecting Sam from the machinery. "Because something about the agent spooked her."

"Is there anything in her file mentioning a confrontation at the academy?"

"I don't have access to her file, Fitz," Simmons reminded him.

"Sure you do, it's right here." He picked it up off the table where Hill had left it. "No, no confrontations… Maybe something happened growing up?" He frowned down at the file. "That's strange. Simmons, look at this."

"What?" Simmons moved to read over his shoulder. "That's odd—There's no record of her life before SHIELD."

The door flew open and rebounded off the wall. The doctors jumped, slamming Sam's file shut. A very familiar man in jeans and a sweatshirt strode into the room, concern written all across his face. "Sam?"

"Captain Rogers—Oh, my god—Fitz—" Simmons clutched at Fitz's arm. "Sir—"

"What happened?"

"She caught sight of another agent and went into a state of shock," Fitz managed, staring in awe at the man before him.

"The name of the colleague?"

"I don't have it."

"Physical description?"

"Uh, tall, dark eyes and hair, well built—"

"Oh, God, Sam." He knelt down in front of her and shook her lightly.

She blinked, her eyes focusing on his face. "Steve?"

"Hey, Sammie." He brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "I'm taking you home." He helped her stand, supporting her as she grabbed her jacket from the table nearby. He led her out of the room and into the empty hallway, then out the front door of the facility. He managed to load her onto the back of his motorcycle, then headed off towards her apartment.

"You can just drop me off," she murmured into his ear as they paused at a stoplight.

"Not a chance," he called back.

They pulled up in front of the building, and Steve parked the bike before leading her inside. Her apartment was on the top floor, and he made her take the elevator. She was silent the entire time, staring into space. He reached under her mat for her spare key and opened up her front door, leading her inside. The living room opened up immediately, and a small kitchen lined the wall across the room. Two bedrooms and a bathroom were hidden behind the other three closed doors.

"Go shower," Steve ordered, not unkindly. "I'll get you some water."

She nodded absently and disappeared into the bathroom. Steve sighed wearily and moved into the kitchen to fill up a glass. He and Samantha were relatively close and had been since New York. She had obeyed orders and remained on the Helicarrier but had gone behind the back of the council and hacked into the mainframe of the missile system. The Avengers later discovered that the World Security Council had tried to send out several missiles, not just the one; but Samantha had managed to shut the others down. When they were fired, instead of heading to New York, they dropped harmlessly into the sea. Her hack was not traceable, so although she revealed her actions to the Director, who pardoned her, she wasn't punished by the Council. Fury had taken Samantha to meet with the other Avengers when Loki was sent back to Asgard; since then, Steve had been sent on several missions with her and had become a bit protective of her: he viewed her as though she was the sister he'd never had.

Sam stepped out of the bathroom, dripping wet, a black fluffy robe wrapped tightly around her shaking form. Steve watched as she crossed the room and sat down in one of her armchairs, tucking her legs up beneath her.

"You want to tell me what happened?"

She glanced at him, then nervously licked her lips. Her eyes had finally lost their vacant look. "You know about my family history."

Steve nodded.

"When SHIELD found me—You're welcome to anything in the fridge, by the way—Well, a couple years ago, I created an alias named Jennifer Guiles." She shrugged and tugged at a loose thread on her sleeve. "What I didn't realize was that she was a real person with a real criminal record."

"How is that possible?" Steve asked, sinking down onto the couch across from her, a beer in hand. Technically—legally—she wasn't allowed to drink, but she still found ways to appropriate it. Steve, who grew up in a time when the legal drinking age was 18, never said anything about it. To him, having to be 21 to drink was ridiculous, and he had told Samantha so a dozen times.

"Someone else hacked my system, appropriated her—my—fingerprints, and committed a crime. When they tracked down the owner of the fingerprints…" She held up her hands and shrugged once more. "They found me. They dragged me in for questioning, but I managed to throw a few punches of my own." She licked her lips. "Grant is the one who brought me in."

"And he didn't recognize you?"

"He did, originally. But after I attacked him, after I was brought in, he seemed to change his mind. I don't think he expected his baby sister to turn into someone like me. The last time he saw me before that day was when I was five years old."

"'Someone like you'?" Steve repeated, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Angry. A fighter. I attacked him, Steve. I could have killed him."

"But you didn't."

"Because I was scared." Samantha pressed her face into her hands. "I am not a good person, Steve. The things I've done—the things I'm willing to do—"

"Sam."

"What."

"I was in the army. I killed people. Too many to count."

"You also sacrificed yourself to save your country. You're a good person."

"And you had horrible things happen to you from the time you were born, yet you still manage to love and fight for good."

"But—"

"You're good, Sam. Don't doubt it."

She rested her head against the back of her chair and stared out the window at the world veiled by darkness.

"I'm leaving on another mission in the morning," she said softly.

"I know. You told me."

"I did? I did. I'm sorry." She shifted, wincing, and pressed a hand against her chest.

"Are you alright?" Steve frowned at the familiar action. "The Doctors didn't give you something for that?"

"I didn't tell them. It's not important."

"Sam—"

"Steve. I'm alright. Really."

He ran a hand through his hair. "What does this mission entail?"

"I don't know. I don't know who's leading it or who my teammates are." She glanced over at him. "Could you drive me to the airstrip in the morning?"

"Sure." Steve smiled wearily. "Do you want to tell me what happened today? We went down a rabbit trail."

"I wasn't expecting Grant to walk in the room," she explained softly.

"But he still doesn't know who you are, right?"

She shook her head, biting her lip in fear. "The Doctors asked for my full name and birthdate."

"And you used your real information."

"Right as he walked through the door," she nodded in agreement.

"I'm sorry."

"He could find out where I live," she whispered. "He could be here right now."

"He's not."

"He could be."

He gave her a small smile. "I trust this means that I'm staying over tonight?"

She nodded. "Will you?"

"I will."

"You know where the guest room is," she smiled tiredly.

"That I do." He leaned forward. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I will be. I won't see him again, I'm sure. I made it almost two years without running into him, I'm sure I can make it another two."

"You should get some sleep." He stood and held out a hand, which she accepted. He pulled her to her feet and let her pass him on the way to her bedroom.

She paused with one hand on the doorknob. "Thank you, Steve."

"You're welcome. Goodnight, Sam."

"Goodnight."

September 24, 2013

Samantha awoke to a knock on the door. "I'm up," she called. Within a couple minutes, she heard the clink of cereal bowls.

Her phone held a new message from Commander Hill—this mission was a long one. Months, maybe years. She choked, eyes stinging, and began to throw clothing into her suitcase. The duffel she'd left at SHIELD could burn for all she cared—there was nothing in there that could be used again.

"Sam?"

"I'm coming."

Steve glanced up at her as she exited the room, running her fingers through her frizzy hair. "You didn't sleep well," he noted.

"I didn't sleep at all." She paused and pulled a couple glasses from the cabinet. "I just got news about my mission. I'm going to be gone for a long time."

He paused. "How long?"

She took a deep breath, and her voice hitched. "Indefinitely."

His expression changed, and he reached out his arms to her, dropping the Lucky Charms cereal back onto the counter. "Come here."

She wrapped her arms around his middle, and he hugged her shoulders. "I don't want to leave for so long," she mumbled into his shirt.

"I know. But hey—" he pulled back and grinned down at her—something that she missed due to her face being pressed against his pecs. "It could be worse. You could be getting on a plane filled with Hydra agents who want to kill you and destroy the world."

"Hydra doesn't exist anymore." Her voice was muffled as though by a pillow.

"I know. I'm glad. I'm just saying, it could be worse. At least you won't be alone."

She finally pulled back, reaching for the cereal. "Yeah. I get to spend time with teammates I don't know. Yay!" She waved her hands around in the air for exaggerated emphasis, then dropped them to her sides.

"And look on the bright side," he added. "Your brother won't be on the plane."


	13. Chapter 13

September 24, 2013

"Is this it?" Steve pulled his motorcycle to a stop near an enormous hangar occupied by a massive plane embossed with the SHIELD logo.

"It has to be." Samantha swung her leg over the side and shifted the duffel on her back. Cool wind whipped her hair into her face, and she made a face as she pulled a strand out of her mouth. "Walk with me?"

"Sam…" He looked around the nearly deserter tarmac. The pair was early—only a few workers were currently milling around the area. Within the hour, a hundred more were scheduled to arrive.

"Please." She shrugged, tilting her head. "Please," she repeated, softer.

He nodded a few times, giving in. "Alright." He cut the engine and dismounted before following her inside.

"Did they have these when you were… Oh." She winced, remembering the enormous plane that Steve had had to crash in order to save the 1940s version of the United States.

"I'm ninety-five, not a fossil," he glanced down at her. "Planes were invented well before my time."

"Fifteen years is not 'well before your time.' You should probably brush up on your history, Mr. Art Major."

He grinned crookedly. "Touché."

Samantha sidestepped an engineer and peered through a large glass wall into a small, empty lab. Boxes were piled haphazardly against the walls, medical equipment scattered across the tables. "Hill told me to go up to my Commanding Officer's office—follow these stairs." Samantha led the way up the metal spiral staircase, peering into the different rooms as she climbed higher.

A closed door greeted her at the top of the stairs. She knocked, and a voice answered, instructing her to come inside. She did, waving Steve in behind her, and turned to face the Commanding Officer. Her phone dropped to the floor, and she backed into Steve.

"Agent Coulson?"

He stood quickly and held out his hand to her. "Agent Ward. Please, take a seat." His eyes widened when Steve stepped into the room. "Captain Rogers—I wasn't aware that you'd be joining us today."

"Phil." He kept a firm grip on Samantha's arm, keeping her from reentering the room. "You're alive. How?"

"If you would both take a seat…"

"Steve?" Sam looked up at the super-soldier with wide eyes. His eyes didn't leave Coulson, but he shook his head.

Coulson's expression didn't change. "Captain Rogers, Agent Ward, I assure you that I am completely normal. There's no illusions or magical hokey pokey or anything else going on. Please, take a seat."

After a few moments, the soldier and the agent sank into the leather chairs in front of Coulson's desk. Coulson took a seat and crossed his arms over his desk.

"I can't begin to explain how sorry I am that you two had to find out like this," he began. "At least I can say that I did, actually die. It wasn't a trick. I flatlined for eight seconds before the medics brought me back, according to my file. After that, I spent some time in recovery. Fury gave me this plane and team to observe threats and try to eliminate them before they get too bad. This isn't a combat op," he added to Samantha.

"Where did you go to recover?" Steve asked, frowning.

"Tahiti. It's a magical place." Coulson smiled dreamily, and Sam leaned back in her chair, frowning. The fingers of her left hand began tapping against the arm of her chair.

"O-kay…" She looked around at Steve, and her fingers stopped moving. "But Coulson, I was there when you get hurt, remember? I was there when you… when you _died._ You were asleep for a hell of a lot longer than eight seconds. You were gone for almost thirty seconds before the medics even _arrived_."

Steve nodded in agreement. "Phil…"

"I know it's hard to believe." He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it open to reveal a jagged scar through the center of his chest where Loki's scepter had ripped through him. "But it's true. It's me."

"Phil, Fury used…" Steve trailed off when he caught the look of childlike confusion on Phil's face. Coulson buttoned his shirt back up. "I'm glad you're back."

"Thank you, Captain."

"So… You're really back?" Sam leaned forward in her chair. "This is really you?"

"Yeah, Samantha. It's really me."

She leaned back in her chair and exhaled deeply. "Holy sh—"

"Language," Steve chided absently.

"—oot," she finished, running a hand through her hair.

"I signed your trading cards," Steve informed him.

"I thought Fury had those covered in my blood," Coulson remarked drily.

"He did. I took it upon myself to find a new set. Mint condition. I couldn't bring myself to bury them with you—at any case, your funeral had already occurred—"

"Do you have them?" Coulson's eyes lit up.

"They're at my apartment in D.C.," Steve replied. "I'll have Sam give them to you next time we connect."

Coulson glanced between Steve and Samantha. "So… Are you two a…" he gestured between the pair, both of whom began shaking their heads wildly. "…couple?"

"No," Sam spoke first, her face as red as the paint on Steve's shield. "No, just teammates. Friends."

"Alright. Well, Agent Ward, I'll show you to your bunk. Captain, you're welcome to join us, if you'd like."

Samantha followed Coulson down the stairs in some sort of daze. Steve hovered over her shoulder, ready to catch her if she fell.

"This is the main room," Coulson explained. "Complete with bar and sitting area. Your bunk is over here." He ushered her towards the wall, where several small rooms were built in. "You're the second agent here, so you can take your pick. The one that's closed belongs to someone else."

Sam removed her duffel and set it down on the bunk farthest from the taken bunk, which ended up being the one farthest from the door.

"Here." She turned to see Steve holding out a small flip phone. "Take it. You can call without it being traced. Only use it in case of emergencies—that way I'll know you're in trouble, and I'll help however I can."

"Thank you." She hesitated for a moment and then threw her arms around him, and he reciprocated the hug, squeezing her shoulders tightly. "Stay safe, alright?" She gave him a watery smile as she slipped the phone into her pocket. "I won't be there to watch your back."

"I'll be fine, Sammie. Promise."

She walked him back down onto the tarmac, where he shook Coulson's hand, then strode back to his bike. She watch as he lifted a hand in salute—she responded identically—and then rode away.

"We have a few hours before takeoff," Coulson informed Samantha, fastening one of the buttons of his blazer. "Do whatever you need to do before then."

"Yes, Sir."

"Agent Ward." Samantha paused and turned to look at her Commanding Officer.

"I've reviewed your file."

She shuffled her feet and tucked her thumbs into the pockets of her jeans. "Yes, Sir?"

"There's considerable information missing from it: your medical records, family information, and education, for example."

She nodded, standing up straighter. Her right, middle finger began tapping out a rhythm against her thigh.

"I was there the day you were brought in for questioning from you University—by the time you were back on base, all information regarding your time at the University had been erased. There was no record that you'd ever been enrolled."

"That's strange."

"I wasn't finished. Your past—at least the part you've chosen to erase—is of no interest to me unless it endangers my team. What I am interested in is this: There was an altercation between you and a Mr. Grant Ward."

Her fingers froze, and after a moment they began a new, considerably more shaky, beat.

"I need to know why."

She shifted her weight from one foot to another. "He attacked me and tried to bring me in without an explanation. I was frightened, and so I fought back."

"You knew his name."

She nodded slowly. "Yes, Sir."

"And while I understand you were frightened, there is a fine line between fright and your reaction. Your reaction to Agent Ward went well beyond _fright_ and fear of being afraid of being taken in for questioning. You were afraid of _him_."

"Sir—" Her voice was very soft, and her eyes had gone very wide.

"Samantha, I need you to be honest with me. Why are you afraid?"

The subtle change in tense from past to present did not go unnoticed.

"I was abused as a child," she began quietly. "By my parents and eldest brother. I had two other brothers besides him—I keep in touch with the youngest, only, of the three."

"You said on record that you had no siblings."

"Review the record again and you'll see that I was quite honest."

"'And no siblings? No one helped you?'" he read off his phone. "Agent Ward asked you this. You responded with a 'No.'"

"That is correct. When I was very young, my brother was arrested. He later returned and burned down the house with me and my eldest brother inside." She removed her hands from her pockets and wrapped her arms around herself. "He was sent to prison, but he escaped some ten years ago and was never seen again. For almost ten years…" Her eyes had gone bloodshot, and her voice cracked. "My parents had me to themselves."

"I'm very sorry."

She nodded and blinked rapidly, sniffing. "I was afraid because Grant is the man who tried to kill me—and who left me at the hands of my parents. When he showed up on my doorstep…" She brushed a curl back behind her ear. "I was terrified. I thought he'd come back to finish the job."

"And was that the last time you saw him?" Coulson asked.

"No." She shrugged helplessly, and a single tear fell from her left eye and onto her cheek. She swept it away quickly. "I saw him yesterday. And he… he heard me say my name and birthdate. My _real_ name and birthdate. He knows who I am, now."

Coulson studied the floor as a crease formed between his eyebrows.

"Coulson?" The pitch of her voice rose. "Coulson, say something. Please."

"There's something I need to look into before we take off," Coulson said, finally looking up. "Wait for me inside, please. I won't be long."

Samantha nodded slowly and retired to her room, where she pulled out her computer and began the tedious, dangerous process of contacting Johnny. The two no longer were in a relationship—that had ended nearly two years ago after she had been taken in my SHIELD—but had been friends since early childhood and remained so now. She was contacting him now to ask about the persona he had created for her: one that her parents could not track but SHIELD would not question. Her work was interrupted far before it was finished.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! Watch it! That's the night-night gun," Doctor Fitz's distinct accent floated up the stairs. Samantha looked up from her laptop and leaned out of her bunk to peer in the direction of the hangar.

Doctor Simmons's British accept sounded next. "Well, it's on my stuff, and it doesn't work, and there's no way we're calling it the 'night-night' gun."

"The bullets _work_. Nonlethal, heavy stopping power, break up under the subcutaneous tissue—"

"Oh, with a dose of only .1 microliters of Dendrotoxin. I'm not _Hermione_. I can't create instant paralysis with that," she complained.

Samantha set down her belongings and began making her way down the stairs. In the last hour, the plane had become a hub of activity, with workers and mechanics and engineers buzzing around, carrying tools or supplies or simply observing.

"You should have run the specs by me before building the molds—"

Fitz picked up in the middle of her sentence, arguing back. Sam jogged down the spiral staircase, her fingers trailing across the railing. "The bullets are hollow. It's a marvel I can keep them from breaking apart in the chamber—"

"Or used a higher-caliber round. Or read a book—"

"Have you ever heard of physics or... What's the other one?... _inertia_?"

"It's not particularly difficult—"

Something heavy dropped to the floor and landed with a dull thud, interrupting their conversation as Samantha emerged onto the landing above the garage and lab.

"Fitz-Simmons?" This new voice was male and slightly familiar—and it sounded like he had lockjaw. Sam passed down the stairs and stood in the entrance to the lab.

Doctor Simmons pointed to her male counterpart. "Fitz."

"Simmons," Fitz finished, pointing to his coworker. "I'm engineering. She's _biochem_. Agent Ward?"

Samantha froze, nails scraping against the metal railing.

Agent _Grant_ Ward answered as Samantha whipped around and took the stairs three at a time back to the safety of the landing. "Coulson said I'd need my comm receiver encoded. Don't know if you've worked with that model before. It's…" Something shattered. "Brand-new."

"He'll repurpose the I.D.I.S. chip," Simmons explained absently. Samantha watched the scene unfold through the mirrors present in the hangar.

"Don't need the external receiver for the inner-ear comms anymore."

"So, uh, how does it…" He stopped speaking with a irritated, muffled groan as Doctor Simmons swabbed the inside of his mouth with a cotton swab.

"Embedded sensorineural silicone matched to your DNA. It's very posh. So, are you excited to be coming on our journey into mystery?"

Agent Grant Ward did not sound especially thrilled. "Like Christmas."

Tires screeched against the pavement as a cherry red convertible sped up the ramp and parked effortlessly beside a large black SUV.

"One of Coulson's old SHIELD collectibles," Doctor Fitz continued. "Flamethrowers, world's first GPS. He's mad for this crap."

Coulson climbed out of the vehicle and closed the door. A worker reached out his hand, and Coulson nearly bit it off. "Don't touch Lola."

"And he calls it a girl's name." Doctor Fitz slapped Grant in good humor and turned, chuckling, back into the lab.

"Agent Ward," Coulson greeted the young man and gestured to the stairs. Sam's heart leapt into her throat. "Glad you could make it." Samantha turned tail and disappeared into the aircraft, heart beating wildly inside her chest.

"Lola's not just a collectible, you know."

Coulson continued to speak as he hiked up the stairs. Sam was just ahead of him, flying up the staircase as quickly and soundlessly as possible. She darted through the main body of the plane and into her bunk, then shut the door, which did not block out the sound of Coulson's voice.

"People tend to confuse the words 'new' and 'improved.' This mobile command, they were in heavy rotation back in the '90s, but then we got a Helicarrier. Hey. Did you hear the one about the guy who's afraid of flying?"

Ward spoke, his voice right outside her door, and Samantha pressed her back against the wall, keeping a pillow between her and the speaker. "I've done a night jump into a drop zone under heavy fire, sir. I can handle it."

"That was a... joke. The first part of a... I'm not gonna tell it now."

A new voice, a woman's voice, joined those of the men. "If you plan to unpack, make it quick. Wheels are up in five. We may have a hit on one of The Rising Tide's routing points."

"Good. We need to do some catching up."

Grant spoke again. "Is that... who I think it is?"

"She's just the pilot," Coulson responded shortly.

"Melinda May is 'just the pilot.' Come on, sir. What game are you really playing?"

"Better stow your gear." There was a beat of time between which Sam sighed in relief and the door to her bunk slid open. The tall, dark form of her brother stood in the corner of the doorway, but Coulson distracted him before he could see inside. "Before you do that, though, I have two things to speak to you about: Firstly, that bunk is taken; pick a different one. Secondly, I need to speak to you about an error in your file."

"An error?" Grant repeated, leaving the door open as he followed Coulson up to his office.

"Yes. You said on file to Agent Garrett and to the rest of SHIELD that you only had two siblings: Christian, your older brother, and Thomas, your younger."

"Yes, sir," Grant replied simply. The information regarding his sister he had kept locked away for years, decades—and it was not something easily revealed. He knew that Garrett was dangerous, though not to him, and he did not want his sister becoming a part of any of the horrors SHIELD could offer.

"Certain information has come to light in the last twenty-four hours that suggests withheld information on your part," Coulson said, watching Grant's expressions closely. They did not change, and Grant did not speak. "Information regarding your sister."

"My sister," Grant repeated.

"Samantha Jocelyn Ward," Coulson glanced at her file. "Born on July 29, 1993. Curiously enough, there's no information on her siblings or parents either. She has told me in person, though, about her family and their relationships with one another." He leaned forward. "She told me that you tried to kill her."

Grant blinked. "What? I would never hurt—" Coulson gave him a look, and he shook his head. "Alright. I have a sister, whom I've seen twice in the last fifteen years. I didn't recognize her the first time I saw her. The second time…" He ran a hand through his hair. "The second time was yesterday. I don't know her, not anymore. But I would _never_ hurt her."

"She thinks you did."  
"If you're talking about when I brought her in for questioning—"

"I'm talking about a fire that trapped her inside her childhood home."

"I didn't know that anyone was inside."

"Be that as it may, Agent Ward, your sister is under the impression that you tried to murder her." He rose from his chair as the plane began to shudder, pulling away from its original spot.

"With all due respect, Sir," Agent Ward struggled to say, running his fingers once more through his dark hair, "I don't see what this has to do with the current situation."

"Your sister is a part of this team," Coulson said firmly. "She is on this plane right now. Agent, sit down!"

Ward didn't move. His hands clutched the back of the chair he had just vacated, fingers digging into the leather. "She's here?" His voice was hoarse.

"She's here," Coulson repeated. "Ward!"

Ward didn't turn around. He strode from the office down the stairs to the bunks, looking inside each one. They all were empty. Coulson followed at a distance as Ward scoured the plane, peering into each nook and cranny. Samantha was nowhere to be found.


	14. Chapter 14

September 24, 2013

"Simmons."

"Yes, Sir?" The Doctor turned around, a falsely innocent look upon her face. Fitz stared down at the night-night gun, determinedly avoiding Coulson's gaze.

"Where is Agent Ward?"

"Oh," she said, turning and striding quickly to a table on the other side of the room. "Well, last I saw, he was tearing apart the bunks."

"The _other_ Agent Ward," Coulson clarified, unamused.

Fitz and Simmons exchanged a glance, and Fitz looked up from his project, a screwdriver behind his right ear. "Samantha's safe," he said softly, grinning at Simmons. "She's in the one place Agent Ward won't be able to look."

Coulson blinked, looking between the two. A moment later, he nodded and headed back upstairs. Agent Ward was pacing back and forth, wearing a hole in the new carpet.

"Agent Ward," Coulson barked. He looked up, irate. "I need to have a word with Agent May. Wait for me in my office."

"Sir—"

"That's an order, Agent," Coulson growled. "Don't make me tell you again."

The two men stared at one another for a beat, and then Ward stalked upstairs, glowering the whole time. Coulson waited until the door to his office slammed shut before he entered the cockpit.

"May?" He knocked on the door before peering inside, and his mouth twitched at what he saw. Agent May and Samantha Ward were sitting in the pilot's chairs, both silently staring out the front window. The silence was not strained as he expected; rather, the two women seemed to be enjoying each other's company.

He shut the door softly behind him. "Agent Ward."

Samantha lifted her head from the chair and offered him a weak smile. "Sir."

"Your brother knows you're on board," he informed her.

She nodded slowly, silently acknowledging his words.

"He was looking for you." She nodded again. "I'm guessing that's why you're here." Another nod. "I think it's wise that you stay here at least until we land," he said softly. Agent May glanced sideways at him. "Maybe longer, if May doesn't mind the company." The slightest twitch of May's lips betrayed her thoughts. "I'll leave you two here."

When he stepped out the door, Samantha sighed lightly, then sank back in her seat, silent. May did not say a word.

"Agent Ward." Coulson entered his office and shut the door soundlessly behind him. The younger man had long since taken a seat and now sat up straight. "We need to have a little chat about your attitude regarding your sister."

"What about h—"

Coulson cut him off. "You don't get to speak. You listen."

Ward's jaw tightened, and he nodded.

"You claim that you don't want to hurt her, and yet you spend two hours tearing the plane apart trying to hunt her down. How do you think that makes her feel?"

"I was not _hunting_ her," Ward bit out. "I was just—"

"I understand how you must feel. Your long lost baby sister, here at last—alone, afraid… You probably want to find her, apologize for abandoning her, for putting her in harm's way. But look at it from her point of view. She thinks you tried to kill her—she is _terrified_ of you."

"It was an accident—I was a _kid._ "

"And she was _five years old,_ Ward." Coulson slammed his hand down on the desk, and Ward fell silent. "I spoke with Agent Barton, her SO, about her performance during basic training. His partner, Agent Romanoff, helped train her in the beginning and acted as her SO when Agent Barton was absent." He paused and scrutinized the younger man before him. "The horrors of her childhood have affected her more deeply than you could ever know. Samantha took her Simulation Exam a couple years back. She was placed inside a burning building, which collapsed on her when she failed to make it out in time. Less than six weeks spanned the distance between that examination and her first assassination."

Ward jerked, eyes flashing. The blood drained from his cheeks. "'Assassination'?"

Coulson leaned against his desk and crossed his arms over his chest. "The girl you remember no longer exists, Agent," he said. "And I mean that in ever sense of the word. The teenager you apprehended two years ago is gone as well. The woman aboard this plane is a trained agent and assassin who will not fail to defend herself against those she sees as threats. Make no mistake, Agent: Once she shakes off her initial shock and fear, once she realizes that she is a match to you, she will be a force to be reckoned with."

"She's an assassin?" Ward ran his fingers through his hair once more before burying his head in his hands. "They turned my baby sister into a killer."

"Grant." Coulson's voice was softer now. "She's grown up. She's killed less than you have, and she always looks for ways to reduce casualties. When there is no other way, she makes sure her targets don't suffer. At least, that's what her file and SO say."

"Her file—" Grant's head jerked up. "Can I see it?"

"No."

"Can you at least tell me—when did she get away from our parents? When she was eight? Ten?" He leaned forward in his seat. "Please, Coulson."

Coulson shook his head. "There's no information on your sister beyond what she's chosen to reveal. That includes her birthday and name. Any other information is lost."

"Lost?"

"Gone. Erased. If you want to find out what happened to her…" Coulson moved to sit behind his desk. "You'll need to ask her yourself. You're dismissed."

Ward stood and made to leave.

"And Ward." The agent turned. "You're not to speak to Samantha 'til I arrange for you to do so."

Ward nodded jerkily. "Yes, sir."

Downstairs in the cockpit, Agents May and Ward were having a very different conversation. After the initial two hours of silence, during which Samantha seemed to have proven her worth by neither speaking nor falling asleep, May had spoken, asking her the reason behind her visit: When Simmons had barreled into the cockpit some two hours earlier, Samantha in tow, she hadn't given any specific reasons as to why Sam needed to stay hidden. May had just nodded her approval in letting the girl—who, with her large brown eyes and dark hair, looked disturbingly like another little girl May had once known—remain in the cockpit with her.

"I'm hiding from Agent Ward," she said simply. Wasting words was not something that either woman valued—for Samantha, it stemmed from having her voice taken from her for so long.

May's brow furrowed. "You're his sister."

"How'd you know?"

"You look alike." May glanced over at her and exhaled slightly, catching sight of her puzzled look. "Manifest."

"Ah." Samantha nodded.

"Why are you in here?" May asked again. "Family issues?"

"Something like that."

"No siblings are listed in your file."

Samantha didn't answer.

"You don't want them listed officially," May said. "Even your parents' names aren't listed. You don't want them to know where you are. You're running from them." Silence. "Do you realized what the odds are of the two of you being assigned to this ship?"

"Infinitesimally slim," Sam ground out. She and Steve had done the math the night before. She had had a better chance of winning the Powerball Lottery than being assigned to the same mission as him. As May watched, Samantha made a note to enter the lottery the next time they had a break. "Are you an assassin?" Samantha asked suddenly. May did not answer, and Sam nodded. "I am too." The corner of her mouth quirked into a smile. "It makes it scary, y'know? Knowing someone's after you. Because you know what's going to happen, and how." She looked at May. "Has anyone ever tried to kill you?"

"Yes."

"Did you stop them?" May gave her a look, and Samantha nodded slowly. After a few moments of silence, she spoke again. "How do you keep yourself from fearing someone?"

It was nearly a minute before May spoke. "You make them fear you."

Samantha settled into her chair, silent, mulling over May's words. The Agent to her left did not offer any more profound advice. In fact, she didn't make a sound for nearly two more hours, not until she spoke abruptly into the headset and began prepping for their descent. Samantha watched, interested, and studied May's every move as she flipped switches and pressed buttons and sent the plane into a controlled dive.

When the plane touched down, Samantha waited for May to give the all-clear before rising from her seat. Before she could make it to the door, May stopped her.

"Stay here."

Samantha nodded and moved back to sit in the chair once more. May pulled out her phone and spoke briefly with Coulson. "Ward is leaving the plane; we've locked on one of the Rising Tide's signals, and he and Coulson are going to apprehend whoever is on the other end of the signal. Coulson wants you to be present for the interrogation, should there be one."

"I understand."

Samantha left the cockpit ten minutes later and wandered down to the lab, where Fitz and Simmons were still bickering over the 'night-night gun.'

"Ah, Samantha!" Fitz looked up and grinned crazily. His curly hair stuck up in every direction, and his eyes shone brightly. "Come here, look! What do you know about engineering or biochemical reactions?"

"Not much," she admitted, striding hesitantly over to the table.

"Eh, ye'll do fine." He pulled her over beside him as Simmons strode back into the room.

"I really have no idea what I'm doing," She shrugged, trying to tug her arm gently from his grasp.

"Samantha!" Simmons smiled widely and wrapped her in a hug, effectively freeing her from Fitz's grasp. "He didn't find you, did he?"

"No, thank you." Samantha smiled softly and moved to push a loose strand of hair back from her face. The action allowed her to free herself from Simmons's grasp without offending the English Doctor, who turned to face Fitz immediately.

"Oh, _Fitz_ —"

"Don't start with me, Simmons—I _know_ I can get this to work—"

"I've told you already, there isn't enough dendrotoxin in the bullets to warrant complete or even partial paralysis—"

"So why don't you just add more dendrotoxin to the bullets?" Sam asked, leaning over to look at the bullets.

"Because, look—" Fitz scooped up one of the bullets and held it so she could look inside. "The bullets are hollow, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So they can only hold so much dendrotoxin. If we were to enlarge the hollow to allow more dendrotoxin, then the density and ratio would be compromised and the bullets would shatter when the gun was fired."

"What if you were to change the size of the bullets?" Sam asked curiously.

"The gun has already been calibrated, and the ratio of gun to bullets has already been set in stone. It's the amount of dendrotoxin that needs adjusting."

"I'm not so sure." Sam frowned down at the bullet, thinking.

"You just said that you weren't an expert—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, hold on." She held out her hand for the bullet, which Fitz reluctantly dropped into her hand. "What was the purpose of this gun again? To paralyze?"

"To incapacitate without killing or wounding the target," Simmons interrupted, watching the exchange with some level of interest. "And to render the target unconscious for a short period of time."

"So shooting an actual bullet at them—that can leave a scar, or something, or hurt them. Why don't you enlarge the hollow to allow for more dendrotoxin—not enough for the bullet to shatter upon release, but enough that it would shatter or dissolve upon impact and release the greater levels of dendrotoxin into the person's system without piercing the skin. That way no one is seriously injured."

Fitz opened his mouth, paused, and then looked down at the bullet. He plucked it from her hand and waved his other hand in Simmons's direction. "Simmons, pull out the simulation, see if we can adjust the ratio of dendrotoxin to metal—" He looked at Samantha. "I could _kiss_ you right now! Y'know, if it works."

The two doctors scrambled for supplies, working frantically to improve the specs for their gun. At that moment, Samantha caught sight of Coulson's black SUV speeding across the tarmac, and she turned to the doctors. "I'd better go."

Simmons glanced up, spotted the vehicle, and nodded. "You should. We won't tell Ward where you've been hiding."

"Yeah, your secret's safe with us." Fitz waved her out with a screwdriver before sticking it back behind his ear. "Better run."

"Fitz, Simmons." May appeared at the top of the stairs. "With me."

Sam did run—all the way upstairs to her bunk. The others left to check out the building that had gone up in flames the day before—Samantha hadn't heard about it because she'd been holed up with Steve in her apartment. She shut and locked the door, then waited for Coulson to call her. And call her he did.

"Agent. Come down to the interrogation room, but don't go inside. Just watch for a while. I'll let you know when to come in."

Samantha reached the cell right as the door swung closed and watched the proceedings through the screen on the wall. Her brother and Coulson were standing over a short, dark haired girl who looked to be only a few years older than Samantha herself.

"You guys are making a big mistake," she said.

"You don't look that big," Grant replied with a smirk.

Coulson shot him a look. "Sorry for the lack of finesse. Agent Ward here has had a little history with your group... The Rising Tide."

Samantha's eyes widened, then narrowed, and she crossed her arms as the girl stammered, "I don't know... what you're..."

Grant leaned forward. "Okay, there are two ways we can do this."

"Oh. Is one of them the easy way?" She fake pouted, tilting her head to one side.

"No."

Her smirk faded. "Oh."

"What's your name?"

She swallowed. "Skye."

"What's your _real_ name?"

"That can wait," Coulson interrupted. "It's another name we need... a certain hero."

"What makes you think I know that?"

"Well, you made a little mistake. The phone you filmed the hooded hero with had the same cryptographic signature as a few of The Rising Tide posts."

Her smile was back, this time brighter and cockier than ever. "Wow. Yeah. Was that a mistake? Or am I now sitting in the center of your secret headquarters? What is this? A plane? I got inside. And by now, you've discovered you can't beat the encryption on my equipment, so you got nothing."

Coulson shook his head. "We have a talented hacker aboard the plane, so that's not a problem. We also have a fairly strong coincidence... you being on the scene right before it went up in flames. Want to tell me what my team is gonna find out?"

Grant interrupted once more, playing the Bad Cop. "How did you know the hooded man was in the building? Did you blow it up to draw him out?"

She leaned back, unamused. "Did _you_?"

"That's not our style," Coulson replied, his calm voice stark against Ward's grating one.

"I was just kidnapped by your 'style,'" the girl protested. "SHIELD covered up New Mexico, Project Pegasus. Of course you'd be covering up Centipede." All three SHIELD agents frowned, and Grant scratched his ear, mouthing the word back to Coulson, who shrugged. "Holy—no way." She chuckled disbelievingly. "You don't know what that is! Billions of dollars of equipment at your disposal, and I beat you with a laptop that I won in a _bet_?"

"You need to think about your friend," Coulson drew her attention back to him. "We're not the only ones interested in people with powers. We'd like to contain him, yeah. The next guy will want to exploit him, and the guy after that will want to dissect him."

Grant leaned in close to her, his voice a growl. "What is Centipede?"

Skye shrugged. "Centipede… it was chatter on the web… and then gone. I traced the access-point MAC address to that building."

"What were you after?" Grant seemed to be incapable of doing anything but growling. "The truth," she shot back. "What are you after?"

"World peace," Grant bit out. Samantha choked on a scoff, which Coulson heard but did not comment on. "You pseudo-anarchist hacker types love to stir things up, but you're never around for the fallout. People keep secrets for a reason, Skye."

"Well, just because you're reasonable and... firm... doesn't mean that you're not an evil, faceless government tool bag."

Sam shrugged, conceding her point, and nodded along to her words.

Grant leaned closer to her. "Just give us your guy's name."

"He's not my guy!"

"You understand he's in danger," Coulson asked.

"Then let me go! Let me talk to him. Me, not the T-1000 here."

"You want to be alone with him. Of course." Grant turned to Coulson, not bothering to lower his voice. "She's a groupie. All this hacking into SHIELD, tracking powers... She might as well be one of those sweaty cosplay girls crowding around Stark Tower."

"What?! I would…" She sputtered, then looked down. "It was one time."

"Ward." Coulson barked at Grant, jerking his head towards the door, which swung open before Samantha had a time to disappear. Fortunately, Grant was too worked up to really notice her presence.

"Is it the girl? She getting under your skin?" Coulson was beyond frustrated.

"Sir?"

"Or is it the assignment? Are you so anxious to get out of this that you'd deliberately blow an interrogation?"

"Give me a minute alone with her, you'll have your answers."

"She's an asset."

"She is such an a... wait... 'asset'?" Grant blinked, thrown.

"We don't know anything about her. Do you appreciate how often that happens? That _never_ happens. The last time that happened was with your sister." It was as though someone had thrown a glass of ice water in Grant's face. "We need... what she knows." Coulson looked over at Samantha. "Agent Ward. I want you to talk to her, try and get something out of her. If that doesn't work, we'll try something else."

Grant spun around at the sound of the door shutting behind him. His gazes quickly drawn to the screen, which showed another agent speaking to Skye. It was Samantha. It was as though he was seeing sunlight for the first time—his expression was full of wonder and longing—and pain.

Samantha kept her shoulders back and her head high. She didn't even look at Grant—she just brushed by him on her way into the interrogation room.

Skye tilted her head. "Good Cop and Bad Cop already came through, so…"

"I heard." Samantha sank into the chair across from Skye, then ran a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry for how you were brought in. You said you were kidnapped?"

"With a bag over my head," she bit out.

Samantha shook her head. "When I was first taken in, I was knocked out."

"When you—Aren't you a SHIELD agent?" Skye stared at her, an amused smile on her face.

"I am _now._ " She shrugged. "Two years ago, I was a college student."

"Were you abducted from your dorm?" Skye leaned forward, interested.

"Almost. I jumped out my third story window and made it almost an hour without getting stopped."

"What happened?"

Samantha laughed as though the memories weren't painful and terrifying. "I beat up the agent trying to take me in."

"Please tell me it was Tall, Dark, and Handsome trying to bring you in." When Samantha grinned, Skye laughed loudly, grinning broadly. "That's awesome! And you got away from him?"

"I think I broke his nose." Samantha shrugged, smiling shyly. "It wasn't the best reaction, but I was scared. I just _reacted._ "

"Alright. What's your name?"

"Samantha."

"Alright, Samantha." She sat back. "Why are you here?"

"I'm here," Samantha ran her fingers back through her hair once more, "to see what can be done for you to trust us."

"Just be honest," she shrugged. "Honestly, your tactics worked so much better than theirs."

"Did you really go cosplay outside of Stark tower?" Samantha asked curiously.

A flush crept up Skye's neck. "Once."

"Word for the wise: Tony almost never uses the front entrance. He usually just uses his suits to fly to wherever he needs to go."

"What, you're on a first name basis with him?" Skye asked, scoffing. When Samantha smiled and shrugged, her attitude changed immediately. "No way! How'd that happen? Are all SHIELD agents, like, BFFs with the Avengers?"

"I was on base with them prior to the Battle of New York," Samantha shrugged. "So I got to talk with a couple of them." The fact that both Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff had served as her SOs was not mentioned. "I've even gone on missions with one of them."

"Okay, you're cool, I admit it." Skye seemed far more relaxed than she had before. "So—"

At that moment, Sam's comms device went off. She paused, listening, and her face fell.

"What's wrong?" Skye asked, real concern in her voice.

"I'm being pulled out." She stood, glaring bitterly at the door. "My _big brother_ doesn't want me messing with his interrogation."

"Your big b—He's your _brother_?!" Skye's jaw dropped. "Damn."

"Yeah." Sam shrugged. Her next words were bitter in her mouth. "I mean, I love him, but I'd prefer he not tell me what to do."

"You're lucky. Having a brother."

Sam had no response. She just nodded, then turned and left. Coulson and Grant were in the hallway, and she didn't spare her brother a second glance as she strode past him, waiting for him to return to the interrogation room. Coulson stepped back out into the hallway a minute later, leaving Grant inside with Skye.

Samantha was shaking violently, her eyes red with suppressed tears. "Hey." She glanced over at Coulson, and the movement of her eyes jarred a tear free to fall onto her lashes. "You did good."

"Permission to leave, Sir?" Her voice was raspy. "I can't be here when he comes back out."

"I'll contact you when you're needed again, but it'll be a few hours. Get some rest."


	15. Chapter 15

_August 7, 2011_

 _"_ _We did it."_

 _"_ _We're done."_

 _Samantha looked at Johnny with wide eyes, and a smile spread across her face as tears filled her eyes. Reflected in them was the creation they had been working on for the past year: Jennifer Guiles. They had hit a few snags, but overall they had done a great job and Johnny would continue to perfect her as the year went on. They had already created a false Samantha Ward—and were prepared to 'kill off' the original to keep the Ward parents off their trail. "Johnny, we're done!"_

 _Johnny threw his arms around his best friend as she cried, her tears both of joy and relief. Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs, and he pulled her close. His voice was so soft, he was not sure if she heard. "You're free."_

September 24, 2013

Afternoon found Samantha standing guard outside of Skye's van while she ran her encryption. She peered inside, taking in the small, but cozy, living situation.

Skye snapped her laptop shut, distracting Sam, who quickly stepped back. "That should do it."

May nodded. "Let's head back."

Skye nodded and ducked back, reaching to grab something from the back of the van. "All right, let me just…"

Without warning, Mike Peterson came out of nowhere and grabbed May, slamming her into the metal panels stacked against the wall of the alley and knocking her unconscious. Samantha leapt backwards out of his reach. "Skye, run!"

Skye whirled around, her eyes widening. "Mike?"

The man managed to grab hold of Samantha's wrist, jerking her around and towards him. When she was close enough, he caught her by the throat and lifted her up off the ground. The agent kicked at his chest, trying to loosen his grip, but to no avail: she may as well have been kicking a mountain. He turned and threw her against the wall, and her head smacked against the brick. She fell to the ground, limp, her limbs bent at awkward angles. Samantha's eyes opened slightly as Mike turned around, and she blinked slowly as her vision darkened.

"Mike?" Skye's voice was high with panic. "What are you doing?"

"Saving you," he panted. "From the scary men in dark suits. And you're gonna help save us."

Samantha's eyes dropped shut as she fell unconscious. She woke a long time later to May shaking her. Sam blinked and made to stand but fell back onto her rear immediately. Blood dampened the hair on the back of her head. "You alright?"

"What happened?" Samantha made to rise and immediately dropped with a groan, clutching her bruised left arm to her chest as she swore. "Oh, God—" An instant later she threw up, narrowly missing May's shoes.

"Are you alright?" May sounded more concerned now: Samantha's pale face was tinged with green.

"What happened?" Her arm was bruising and swelling rapidly; inside, the edge of the bone pressed sickeningly against the inside of her skin. "My head hurts," she murmured, scooting away from the puddle of sick and reaching blindly towards the brick wall for support.

May caught her arm and pulled her to her feet. Sam leaned against the wall, panting, and May, ever watchful, caught sight of the way her eyes wandered as she tried to stand.

The older agent spoke to Coulson through the comms as she led Sam back towards the SUV.

 _"_ _May?"_

"He took Skye."

 _"_ _You alright?"_

"We'll deal with that later... at length. Right now, we need to figure out where they went." And then, a moment later: "Call for medical; Ward's hurt."

 _"_ _Samantha?"_ This time it wasn't Coulson who spoke, but Grant. Sam stiffened as a shudder ran through her, and May didn't miss it.

"Grant?" Her response was childlike and innocent, and May turned to look down at her, surprised by the sound of her voice. Big brown eyes looked dazedly back at her, blinking blearily. They closed tight, and when they opened, they were clear. The line went dead.

"Come on." May hauled Samantha up and led her back towards the SUV. "We're getting you back to the Bus."

Sam's train of thought was returning. Her grip on May tightened, and she regained both her bearings and her footing as the seconds ticked by. "You don't have time to drop me back at the Bus. We need to find Skye and Mike—he had his son with him." Samantha tried to sway May's decision even as she herself swayed on the uneven ground. May groaned as Sam's knees buckled and dropped the girl's full weight on her shoulders.

"Get in the car." May opened the door for Sam, who could barely stand upright, much less operate any sort of machine, even one so simple as a door. "Coulson, tell me where to go."

 _"_ _We don't know where to go. Stay where you are."_

When the other agents arrived at the scene, Sam was in bad shape. The initial shock of her injuries had worn off, and her face was tinged green from the pain of her broken arm. A medic got to work examining her head while she argued with May.

"I'm coming with you!"

"Get her back to the Bus," May ordered sharply to the other Agents on scene. When no one moved, she turned to Coulson.

Coulson lifted one hand into the air, silencing her, and brought the other to his ear, listening to something on his comms. "They have a location on Skye's van."

"Get her back to the Bus." May hissed the order at the young medic, who nodded with wide eyes, not daring to disobey.

"Samantha." Grant Ward appeared seemingly from nowhere and grabbed her uninjured arm. "Are you alright?"

"Get off me!" Her voice rose to a shriek, and he let the medic push him back as Coulson waved him forward.

"Go back to the Bus, Ward," Coulson commanded Samantha. "That's an order."

Sam sat back, irate but obedient, and let the medic bring her back to the Bus. She listened through her comms as her team reached the train station and confronted Mike Peterson. She listened as her friends put themselves in danger and nearly died. And she listened as her brother took Mike down without hurting him.

The SUV pulled up the ramp and into the Bus, and the medic opened the door for her. He sat her down and began pulling supplies out and laying them on the table between them. The room was eerily quiet as he took her x-rays and then set the information aside without even looking at it.

"What's your name?" Samantha finally asked.

The young man glanced up at her, green eyes almost gray in the florescent light. "Alex. Alex Duncan." His accent was English.

The young agent smiled and held out her unbroken hand. "Samantha Ward."

Alex took her hand and shook it. "You have a concussion, Samantha Ward," he informed her, his lips curving grimly. "I'm going to need you to lie down here," he said, leading her into an adjoining room with a medical exam table. She did as instructed. "Your arm's been broken with the bone pressing against the skin here—" His cold fingers lightly traced over the spot, and she nearly jumped off of the table, swearing; "—and I have to set it quickly or else the edge could nick an artery. Would you prefer be conscious for this," he asked cautiously, "Or not?" It was something he had to ask. Many patients who operated in the field preferred to be unconscious even for small procedures. Others needed to be awake and in control of their mental facilities. Alex had learned not to ask why—many of them had suffered traumas they did not think he could ever imagine. He never bothered correcting them, but he hoped that this woman was not one who had to deal with memories like his.

"I'd rather be awake," she answered his question.

Alex looked down, nodding, and handed her a roll of gauze wrapped around a plastic rod. "Bite down on this, please."

He set the bone, wishing as she screamed that she had chosen to be unconscious. His wish was answered a moment later as she slumped back against the exam table, out cold. Alex set her arm quickly, making sure there were no stray chips of bone he had missed—but no; it had been a clean break. The bone had, amazingly, not lacerated any of the surrounding muscles of her forearm, though it had come very close to puncturing her radial artery. Alex moved closer. The break was oblique and displaced—although he obviously had replaced the bone—and would probably take between six and ten weeks to heal completely. He winced as he set a stiff brace around her arm and began wrapping gauze around it to keep the agent from moving her arm.

"Alex?" Samantha stirred.

"Right here," he replied, glancing at her head and offering her a smile. No internal bleeding or permanent brain damage. A minor concussion; headaches and sensitivity to noise and light should be the only side effects. "You'll want to be careful with that arm for about six weeks," he told her quietly. "I know six weeks sounds like the end of the world, but you'll be fine. Promise. You have some bruising around your throat, but nothing is seriously injured there, and your concussion isn't too severe, either." He told her what he had seen, and she studied him curiously.

"Do you have powers?" she asked him softly. He froze. "You didn't look at my x-rays."

Alex swallowed, at a loss for words.

"It's okay if you do," Samantha whispered. "Captain America is a friend of mine. I'm not afraid."

Alex cleared his throat. "You're not the one who should be afraid." He finished wrapping her arm slowly, carefully, not meeting her gaze. "Shield isn't a fan of gifted individuals. Even the ones on their side."

Sam reached out with her unbroken arm and touched his hand. He raised his face to look at her, and her warm brown eyes stared into his as she squeezed his hand. "I'm on your side," she whispered.

Agent Coulson walked into the room, and she pulled away. "Ward, how are you feeling?"

Sam gave him a bitter look and gingerly moved to sit with her legs crossed beneath her. "Alive."

Coulson turned to Alex. "Thanks for patching up her up, Agent…"

"Duncan, Sir. Yes, Sir." Alex nodded respectfully and moved to gather his supplies.

"One of Agents is a Biochem expert," Coulson said, stopping Alex. "She requested to see Agent Ward's x-rays, if you have them."

"I do," he said, gesturing towards the other room. "They're stacked on the holo-table in the other room." Coulson left to relay the information, and Samantha shook Alex's proffered hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Samantha Ward," Alex smiled. "I am glad to have an ally—albeit a stubborn and injured one."

"Maybe we'll see each other again," Samantha smiled back at him, unaware of the way her cheeks glowed with color.

"I hope so." The two looked at one another a few moments longer before releasing each other's hands. "Until next time, then." Alex started to leave, then turned around and scrubbed something on a discarded bandage wrapper. "In case you are injured again," he said quickly, blushing. This time he did leave, hurrying out the door with a backwards glance.

Samantha looked down at the number and then folded it carefully and placed it into her pocket before wandering out and joining the others. The Bus took off, heading for Miami, and Simmons took the time to explain the x-rays to Samantha, either unaware or uncaring about the fact that Alex had explained everything to her an hour before.

Simmons ran her fingers lightly along the screen displaying Sam's x-rays, explaining the images to her. The rest of the team was in and out of the room, milling around while they waited for the Bus to touch down. "You have an oblique fracture: the bone is broken diagonally in one place, resulting from Mr. Peterson grabbing and pulling you towards him. My guess is that it was unintentional: he just didn't know his own strength, like what happened with his foreman. You also have a minor concussion and some bruising around your throat, but the bruising should fade relatively quickly."

"So I'm good?" Sam's voice had grown raspy since Alex's departure. She rubbed her throat, wincing at the deep-set ache. "I can go?"

"If by 'go,' are you asking whether you're cleared for combat, the answer is no." Coulson stepped out of his dark corner of the room, shaking his head.

Her voice was laced with disbelief. "Sir, I've dealt with worse injuries than this. Before New York—"

"No need to lecture me, Agent, I was there," Coulson interrupted, ticking off her injuries as he spoke. "I know that you fought your SO—and lost—and then were caught in an explosion and attacked by rogue agents on your way to carry out a duty assigned to you by Director Fury and myself—and for that I apologize. But I also know that it look you a long time to recover physically as well as mentally."

"And whose fault was that?" Sam shot back as an angry flush crept up her neck, mingling with the dark bruises.

"Mine." Coulson gave her a hard look, immediately accepting responsibility for the part his death had played in her long recovery. "And you have every right to continue that therapy. I'd be more than happy to assign a psychologist to you if Captain Rogers isn't available."

The two agents stared at one another. Grant crossed his arms over his chest, watching, glancing between the two. Samantha rose shakily from her seat, eyes flashing. She was furious—but also looked like she might vomit at any second.

"Don't you _dare_ bring Steve into this," she whispered. "I don't know what you think is going on—but whatever it is, you're wrong. He is my _friend_ and the closest thing I have to family."

Grant shifted uneasily, noting the jab, and spoke up, pulling her attention away from Coulson. It was the first time Coulson had been too preoccupied to keep him out of the same room as his sister, and it was too late to fix the mistake now. "What about Thomas?"

Samantha turned slowly to face her older brother. "I haven't spoken to Thomas in two years," she told him, and there was no hiding the bitterness in her voice. "I wanted to keep him safe, so I cut contact. He thinks I'm dead."

Grant's expression shifted ever so slightly, a change that Coulson noticed. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I love him."

"So you would hurt him like that? Make him believe that his sister is dead?"

Sam's jaw tightened, and her right hand curled into a fist. "You don't get to lecture me."

"You're my _sister_ —"

 _"_ _Shut up!"_ The change in demeanor was so sudden that Grant obeyed, startled by her outburst. Even Coulson jumped at the sound of her scream. A steel tray clattered against the floor, its contents spilling out and clinking against the ground. Simmons stood with a hand over her heart, cheeks flushing. She immediately gathered up the fallen medical supplies, muttering an apology, and they hurried from the room, leaving Samantha alone with Coulson and Grant.

Sam took a deep breath and loosened her fist, slowly splaying her fingers out against the stainless steel table. "You don't get to pretend that you're apart of my family," she said, her voice deadly calm. "Do you understand me?"

"Why?"

Samantha stood, supporting her weight with her unbroken arm. She pushed up the sleeve of her shirt to reveal her scars. "Do you see this, Ward?" Her brother winced at the use of his last name. "This is why." She pushed down against the table as her legs trembled with exhaustion. "You tried to kill me."

"It was an accident." When Samantha laughed and shook her head, Grant strove to make her listen. "No, listen to me! I didn't know you were inside, I swear it."

"Oh, that makes it better. It was an accident. You didn't mean to drop a burning building on me." Venom dripped from her tongue. "That makes everything okay."

Ward fought back, desperately trying to make her understand. "I thought you were with Jonathan! I thought you were safe—I thought I was getting you away from them!"

"You left me with them!" And all of a sudden she was right in front of him, practically nose-to-nose with her brother, screaming at him. "You left me with them—" Her voice cracked, suddenly very small, and for a split second Grant could see the little girl he had left behind. "Do you have any idea what they did to me?" She shoved him as though he were the one responsible for her pain, and her voice rose back into a scream. "Do you?"

"No."

"You're right, you don't. So you don't get to come in here and call my your sister, tell me everything was an accident. I know what really happened, Ward."

"So what happened, Samantha?" Grant finally snapped. "Tell me what lies our mother whispered to you about me. Tell me what crap she told you that you were stupid enough to believe."

Sam's face grew pale with rage. Grant lifted his hand, and for a split second Coulson thought he was going to strike her. But then he caught Samantha's wrist, stopping her from slapping him across the face.

"Tell me," he commanded, tightening his grip on her scarred wrist. "Tell me!"

Samantha stared back at her brother in defiance, but as she did, the outer mask seemed to melt away. She closed her eyes, unable to look at her brother. The men looking at her in that moment did not see an agent or even a young woman; they saw a child who had been hurt beyond reckoning or imagination. "Let go of me," she whispered.

Grant didn't need to hear a single word or explanation. The look on her face told him everything he needed to know. He released her, and she stumbled back.

"You're dismissed, Agent," Coulson said softly. Samantha's back straightened, her shoulders squared, and she nodded respectfully before turning and leaving the room. Her hurried footsteps clanged against the metal staircase as she fled to another part of the ship.

Coulson leaned forward, his head bowed between his outstretched arms. Grant stared grimly at the place where his sister had last stood, hatred and pity filling his heart. He didn't need his sister to tell him what their parents had told her. He knew that whatever he imagined, the truth was worse.


	16. Chapter 16

September 30, 2013

"Are you sure you're going to be alright without me?" Samantha adjusted the duffel bag against her shoulder, glancing warily back at the Bus.

"You'll be gone for a couple days, I think I'll survive." Skye glanced at Grant as he strode by without looking at either of them. "If your brother doesn't cross me off his kill list first."

Samantha stared after her brother, his words ringing in her ears: _"So what happened, Samantha? Tell me what lies our mother whispered to you about me. Tell me what crap she told you that you were stupid enough to believe."_

"Sam? You okay?"

Samantha blinked and smiled, stretching out her clenched jaw and fists and sticking her hands into her pockets. Her knuckles were white. "I'm fine. Just thinking."

Skye glanced back at the door Grant had disappeared behind. "Is everything okay between you and your brother? You haven't talked to each other in a week."

"Just your basic sibling rivalry." Sam shook her head, a relaxed smile plastered across her face. "We're just not used to sharing a bathroom."

Skye hummed, nodding, and shrugged. A few moments passed, and then: "You're lying."

Before Sam could respond, Agent Barton pulled up the tarmac and stopped his car at the edge of the plane's ramp. He nodded, offering Skye a thin-lipped smile.

"I'll see you in a few days," Sam headed down the ramp, relieved and eager to be leaving the Shield agents behind. "Try not to burn the plane down while I'm gone."

"I'll do my best." Skye waved, watching Samantha leave.

Once Skye had turned and disappeared into the main body of the plane, Samantha spoke. "It's good to see you."

Clint smiled Samantha as she climbed into the car and glanced over her in concern, taking in her sling and bruised throat. "It's good to see you too."

Sam caught his concern. "I'll be fine. We had a scuffle on the ground in LA, but everything turned out alright."

"Hill had you called back to be checked out; things don't seem _fine_."

Sam slouched down a bit in her chair, staring at her hands. "My brother is on the team."

Silence reigned for almost a minute before Clint spoke. In the meantime, the aging agent turned out onto the interstate and began speeding down the road. "Grant Ward?"

Sam looked at him in surprise. "You know him?"

"He's one of the highest scored Operations graduates since Natasha."

Sam sat back, thinking about what her SO had said. "He's a pain in the ass."

"He set the fire, didn't he." It wasn't a real question, but Clint had never learned the answer. All things considering, he knew very little about her past besides her time at Shield and time spent serving under his authority.

"Yeah."

The pair drove a good ten miles before Agent Barton spoke again. "Coulson mentioned something about you."

Samantha glanced at him. "What?"

"Your disrespect towards authority, for one."

Sam's cheeks flushed and she sat up straighter, assuming a position of respect as she sat beside her superior officer. "I apologize, Sir."

Clint shook his head, his expression stern, and continued as though she had not spoken. "Your blatant refusal to work with your teammates, for another." He glanced at her sideways. "As well as your continued affiliation with Captain Rogers." He held up a hand to stop her from speaking. "I don't mind your reluctance to work alongside your brother, given the circumstances. As far as your affiliation with Captain Rogers goes—"

Samantha had gone very white. "Permission to speak, Sir."

"Granted."

"I don't know what's been said about my friendship with Captain Rogers, but I need you to know that that is all there is. There is no sort of inappropriate going-ons between the two of us."

Clint glanced at her and then nodded. "I know. The two of you have worked together on multiple occasions and have given no reason for me to doubt your integrity."

Samantha replied testily. "Then why is my relationship with him in question?"

Clint's tone grew sharper. "Because your partnership extends beyond that of teammates, Agent, and that's something that Shield doesn't need." Her stopped and shook his head. "Shield's touchy about their science experiments," he breathed.

"Steve isn't an experiment."

"You're missing the point, Agent." Clint clenched his jaw. "I know that Cap's important to you. But for now, it's best for both of you that you cut contact. Cap's got enough burdens to carry without shouldering yours." The words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Sam's expression turned dark, and Clint's left hand slipped from the wheel towards the concealed weapon on the door. He had seen the look before, and the reminder was enough to make him consider taking out his own friend. As fast as it appeared, the look was gone. His hand drifted from the weapon and returned to the wheel.

"Yes, Sir."

Sam said nothing for the remainder of the drive. The next two days were spent undergoing various examinations—psych evaluations, physical evaluations, tests made to calculate mental and emotional capacity. By the end, Sam was drained and frustrated. Her ability to shoot a gun had not improved: she could barely hit the outer ring of a target with a gun, much less a bow. She always pulled up at the last second, sending the bullet or arrow in the wrong direction. Her problem-solving skills hadn't improved either; she was too reckless. As far as statistics went, she was less an asset than her brother.

Agent Barton's interest in her had been sparked by her willful spirit and ability with knifes. It had been nurtured by the raw power she possessed, something that came from pain and experience and something that even he could not name, perhaps something to do with the darkness lurking behind her eyes.

Considering his own story, it wasn't surprising that Agent Barton had always had a soft spot for the lost. He had been the one to find Natasha and take her in to become a Shield agent. He had seen light in her in spite of her past, and her skills had given Shield a reason to approve his request. He had been the one to see Samantha and give her a chance not because of the light he had seen, but because of the darkness. He wanted to give her a chance to be good in spite of her past. Now he was afraid he had only given the darkness in her license to grow. The look in her eyes: it was hate. It was rage and murderous hatred, and it had made him reach for his gun. He cared about her deeply: she was the only agent he had ever seen himself in, and he had poured into her as much as he could. He knew about her past and did not judge her for it, but even though there had been many instances when Samantha had been kind or vulnerable or had even been willing to sacrifice herself for others, there had also been times when he wondered if he had made a mistake taking her in and training her to be a killer.

At the end of the time at Shield, Barton drove her across the country to meet up with her team at another Shield base. They stopped at a safehouse for the night, each camping out in a separate room. Around eleven at night, Barton stopped by her open door and peered inside. Sam was sitting on the edge of her bed staring at the floor, apparently deep in thought. "Samantha."

Sam looked up from her hands as her SO entered her room. Her posture changed and she sat up straight. Her body trembled, her hands worst of all. "Yes, Sir?"

Clint shook his head. "When I mentioned your disrespect towards authority, I didn't mean you had to change how you act around me." She nodded and relaxed, but she continued to shiver in spite of the warm temperature of the room.

"Agent Coulson informed me of something you said to your brother. About your older brother, Thomas." When Sam didn't answer, he studied her body language, watching her discomfort grow before continuing. "He said you cut contact with him, that he thought you were dead."

"Yeah." All semblance of respect seemed to fade from her body as she slumped forward and ran a hand through her hair. Her eyes were tinged with red, and even from where he stood he could smell the alcohol on her breath.

"Being a Shield agent doesn't mean cutting ties with your family. Call your brother."

"It's better that he thinks I'm dead," she murmured. The slur in her voice was more noticeable.

"I thought you quit drinking." Barton took a seat on a chair near her bed.

"Seemed like a good time to start again." She pulled the bottle from behind the bed and held it in her lap, staring at it. "It's funny. Every time I drink I promise that I'll stop because it doesn't make the pain go away; and then I keep drinking because I think that maybe this time it'll be different."

"That's what addiction does." Clint's lips pressed together in a thin line. It was against Shield protocol to allow for agents to work in the field while struggling with addictions, but he had never been able to bring himself to turn her in. "You told me you were never going to get drunk again because of what your parents did to you."

"My parents did it sober." She turned the bottle over in her hands, scraping her nails across the glass. When she spoke again, it was about something completely different. "Did you ever want to be good?" Barton remained silent, waiting for her to continue, knowing that she would keep talking without any prompting. "Growing up, I told myself that I'd be good. I'd never do what my parents did." She looked up, tears in her eyes, and Barton knew that she wouldn't remember any of this in the morning. "I've killed people, Clint." She rarely called her SO by his first name anymore unless she was in trouble, and so he sat forward, concerned. She looked down at her hands. "And—I feel like the more I do it, the easier it gets."

"Sam." Clint reached out and touched her hand, and she looked at him. He tried to speak as simply as he could, as though to a child. "The ones you killed were bad people."

"'Bad people'," Sam repeated with a small laugh. The look in her eyes was fractured. "Because they were murderers? Like me?"

Clint flinched but could not deny her statement. It was true that she had killed. She was a murderer, just like him: but the fact remained that the people who had died at her hands were murderers, rapists, terrorists; people who got off on hurting others. In the minds of those in authority, what she had done was excusable, even laudable. In her mind, she was no better than them. "Because they murdered innocent people."

"But what if I was wrong? What if they were innocent, too?"

"The first man you were sent to take out was a murderer and a rapist. He hurt children. You told Natasha that you did it to protect those kids because you were one, once. Remember?"

"I can't forget," she breathed. "And I don't regret his death." She swallowed and took a deep breath. "But the others. What if they had a reason to kill someone who had hurt them?"

A sense of foreboding filled the room as Sam set the bottle down beside her. Clint had to fight against the instinct telling him to reach for his gun. "Sam, what did you do?"

A tear dropped down her nose as her hands curled into fists.

"What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything." She looked up at Clint with red-rimmed eyes. Then she picked up the bottle with her burned hand and moved as though to hurl it across the room, but she stopped and let her hand fall back to her lap, bottle in tact. "I want to kill them," she whispered, watching drops of liquor shining against the glassy green interior.

"Who?"

She did not seem to hear him. "They hurt me. They hurt Thomas."

"Sam, look at me." She did, after a moment, but she seemed to be looking through him rather than at him. "They can't hurt you anymore."

"They do hurt me. Every day."

"Maybe, Sam." Clint took her hands and squeezed them between his, being careful not to hurt her broken wrist. Her hands were cold and clammy. "But I can tell you that friends and family can help."

"My family's the problem."

"Not Thomas." Silence descended upon the room like a dark cloud. "I didn't mean what I said about Steve," Clint finally said. "Shield asked me t talk to you because it doesn't want you around him." He shook his head, making an executive decision and hoping it would not come back to bite him. This agent was under his protection, and he could not, would not, be the one to break her. "Just be careful."

"You don't think I'm too much of a burden for him to bear?" Her voice cracked, and she looked away.

"No." He shook his head. "I think you've been broken like he has, and that the two of you help each other. You're like siblings; I've seen it. You rely on each other."

"Yeah." She looked up at him, and he sensed the vulnerable position she was in: right on the edge of breaking. "Don't make me push him away," she whispered.

"I won't." He shook his head and stood up. "On two conditions: for his sake and yours."

She nodded. "Anything."

"You quit drinking."

She stared at him for a second, then looked down at the bottle in her hand. After a minute's more hesitation, she put the bottle in his hand. He pulled it out of her reach.

"What's the other?"

"You try to forgive him, Sam." Sam stared at him as the meaning clicked, and the wounded look on her face made his heart ache. "It'll be hard, but I need you to try. This anger you have—this hate—it's changing you."

Somewhere inside the house, the old grandfather clock struck twelve, and the dozen peals of music had long since faded away by the time she finally spoke. "I'll try."

It was all he could ask of her. He placed his hand on her shoulder. "I'm proud of you, Sam."

Samantha nodded and lay back onto her bed. She was asleep in seconds, and Clint left her, closing the door behind him.

October 3, 2013

"What the hell happened?" Sam leaned forward to stare in shock at the Bus, which had a gaping hole in the side that was slowly being repaired.

"We had a bit of a problem in Peru," Coulson said, standing with his arms crossed and staring at the plane through dark tinted glasses.

"'A bit of a'… I was gone for three days, Coulson."

"Then thank goodness you weren't gone longer." He jerked his head towards the Bus. "Why don't you go put your stuff back in your bunk."

"Because there's a hole in it?"

Coulson didn't smile. He had a soft spot for her, it was true, but he was not in the mood to deal with her sarcastic quipping today. "That wasn't a request, Agent."

Sam's mouth twisted as she nodded. "Yes, Sir."

Skye met Sam inside and blocked her way. "Your brother said something interesting about you while you were gone."

"Yeah, I've heard a lot of interesting things about me lately." Sam pushed past her teammate and lowered her bag back onto her bunk, grinding her teeth when her bag caught on her broken arm.

Skye plowed on as though Sam hadn't spoken. "He said you hate him."

"Did he?" Samantha paused and looked out the window in her bunk. Coulson was outside, still, talking to Director Fury. She wondered briefly if the only reason why she was here was because of what Natasha had said over a year ago, that she was on Shield's watch list. Was she only here so Coulson could keep an eye on her? Coulson and Grant had both mentioned the same thing: potential. Potential to do what?

"You said you loved him."

It wasn't a complete lie. There had been a time when she had loved her brother, but the love had stopped when he had hit her for the first time. Christian's orders. Sam placed a hand to her cheek as if she could feel still the sting of his palm against her skin.

"Can you just be honest with me?" Skye burst out, throwing her hands up. "The only reason I even agreed to help Shield in the first place was because I thought you were honest with me in the interrogation room, so—"

"You want me to be honest?" Sam whirled around to face her teammate. "I was abused for years. My brothers beat me and Grant went the extra mile and tried to kill me."

Skye spoke in defense of Grant. "He said he didn't."

"You wanted honesty, here it is. I'm sorry I'm not a part of some picture perfect family where older brothers love their little sisters. I'm sorry I'm not some saint who's always honest. I'm sorry I'm not 'best buddies' with all the Avengers." She had not seen even one of the so-named Avengers after New York, with the obvious exceptions of her SO and partners in the field. And even those relationships had grown strained as of late. She had not spoken to Natasha in months, and Clint had not pressed contact in the weeks preceding his latest visit. Even Steve had cut contact, perhaps given the same orders she had been given. Her chest tightened as her voice rose, giving voice to the rage pent up inside her. "I'm sorry—"

At that moment she stopped, pressing a hand to her chest and gasping for breath as pain flared up across her chest. Her heart seemed to stop as her muscles seized up, and she sank to the ground, eyes closed, trying to take tiny breaths until the pain went away.

Skye was on the ground beside her in an instant, trying to help but not knowing what to do. "Oh my god. What's wrong?" Skye ran out of the room before Sam could stop her. There was very little she could have done at the moment; she could barely breathe, much less function. "Ward!"

Grant came into the room as Sam was pulling herself to her feet, using her bed as a crutch. The episode had lasted longer than normal. She took deep breaths as the pain faded.

"Are you alright?" Grant asked. He held out a hand towards her but did not try to touch her or comfort her in any way. "Skye said you were hurt."

"I'm fine." Sam met his gaze and was reminded of a moment from a drunken conversation that she had thought was only a dream. She had promised Clint to try. The look on his face when she spoke tugged at her heart, and he nodded quickly and left right after she spoke. The sound of her voice seemed to echo in her small room with a magnitude of meaning, and even though she only spoke five words, the implications were enough to make her chest grow warm.

"Thanks for checking on me."


End file.
